


Echoes

by inwardtransience



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends: Knights of the Old Republic, Star Wars Legends: Knights of the Old Republic II: The Sith Lords
Genre: BAMF Meetra, BAMF Revan, Gen, Jedi and Sith shenanigans, Mandalorians - Freeform, Politics, The Council is full of shit and anyone with half a brain knows it, Worldbuilding, the Dark Side doesn't work like that
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-26
Updated: 2019-05-01
Packaged: 2019-05-28 20:51:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 123,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15057563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inwardtransience/pseuds/inwardtransience
Summary: The Jedi thought that, by turning their greatest enemy into an unwitting assassin, they could grasp victory from the jaws of defeat, and safeguard the Republic, the democratic and egalitarian principles at its foundation, for future generations. Really, they should have just killed her.





	1. The Fall

The deck shook.

Not with the tiny, almost imperceptible shiver of powerful machinery at work, but with the bone wrenching shudder of a chemical explosion. The air was filled with noise and fire, the pressure enough she almost choked, the heat against her skin, even crouched behind a security console, intense enough she winced. But it lasted only an instant, the tightly-controlled destruction flaring out as quickly as it'd begun.

As soon as she'd recovered from the unforgiving force of the shape charges, Bastila sprung up and rolled over the sparking console, dropping to her feet and running for the neatly obliterated blast doors. She wasn't at all surprised to see the other Jedi all seconds ahead of her, Master Kavar already disappearing through the smoke-obscured doorway. One by one they slipped through, the soft glow of lightsabers a variety of colors enduring a second after their forms had disappeared. Bastila dove into the smoke last, the remaining strike troopers folding in behind her.

She stepped over the shattered remnants of the door, blinded by the yet thick smoke, but her feet falling true. The cloud parted after only a few steps, revealing the Jedi gathered, the bridge just beyond. Rimmed with tall windows of transparisteel, divided into sharp triangles here and there with beams of solid metal, so clear and so clean it might as well not exist, the stars beyond, the burnt orange of the dead planet to the right, so vivid she could taste them. To the left, above, all around, dozens of lumbering capital ships, great wedges of gleaming silver and white, flickering with the flash of turbolasers and missiles against shields, the flare of energy so constant it almost seemed solid. The front line, so to speak, was some distance off, the Interdictor they'd infiltrated screened by an escort of intimidating strength, only a handful of Republic fighters penetrated this far, rushing Sith guns with suicidal bravery.

Some distance away, yes, almost hard to see, but Bastila could still feel them. Minds focused on the here-and-now with razor keenness, blood hot with adrenaline, so thick with tension it was painful, joints aching and eyes stinging with sweat. Not a single mind, that would be distracting enough, but  _thousands_  of them. Packs of them, hundreds and hundreds each, collected into the tight mass indicating greater capital ships, the smaller gunships and smaller yet fighters buzzing between them, so quick and so many she felt them not as single points of light but a diffuse cloud, sensation blurring into a seamless whole. The terror at near misses, pilots scrambling as potshots flared against their shields, exultation as a shot struck home, an enemy reduced to plasma, far outliving the terror and agony as lives winked out. By the hundreds, a tempest of death, of pain, of fear, of ecstasy, so many and so  _much_  it was hard to keep it all straight. Hard to keep it all  _outside_ , so powerful it forced itself upon her, couldn't be denied.

It was so  _much_ , she couldn't help feeling it, it was distracting. But she couldn't let herself be distracted, not longer than that second she'd just lost. Even a second was enough to get her killed.

Somewhat to her surprise, the bridge crew, the familiar uniforms looking slightly strange in silvers and blacks, were still at their stations, sunk into the floor on either side of the walkway she and the other Jedi now stood on, still going about their business, muttering light on the air as rustling leaves, hands against consoles a constant shiver of movement. Not perfectly at ease, no — a few snuck cautious looks at them, not quite fearful, but perhaps anxious, a low anxiety that many eased with a simple glance forward, toward the other end of the walkway, the two figures standing there.

One, Bastila knew from the insignia pinned over his left breast, was the captain of this particular Interdictor. (She knew she'd been told it at one point, but she'd since forgotten his name.) He was half turned toward them, eyes set in an oddly youthful face narrowed with...annoyance? Something less than fear, in any case. After a tense moment, the gathered Jedi waiting for some sign to move, the captain glanced at the figure next to him, a clear question in his bearing.

This one was not wearing the off-color Republic uniforms the traitor navy had adapted. From behind, the figure was entirely obscured by a heavy cloak in black and deep red, only a pair of shining combat boots peeking out from under the hem. But that was more than enough, Bastila knew who this was. She'd be able to tell with her eyes closed. Power filled the room, power so thick it was as a charge on the air, like the fiercest of Dantooine summer storms. So thick her skin tingled, so thick she could taste it. Power intense yet calm, solid as ice and rimmed with blackness, ferocious yet tame. Death lying in wait, restrained with iron will.

Yet, despite herself, Bastila was surprised. She'd expected Darth Revan — former Jedi and hero of the Republic, current Dark Lord of the Sith — would be taller. The top of her head barely reached her captain's chin, and he wasn't a tall man, either. But Bastila shook the thought off, dragging herself back to the moment. Even a second was enough to get her killed.

"You'd better get behind the ray shields, Captain." She spoke with an obvious educated coreworld accent, cool and refined, an alto so clear and smooth a person couldn't help being instinctively drawn to it. The voice of a scholar, the voice of a leader, the voice of a Jedi. With a touch of dark humor, she added, "I'm afraid our guests intend to make a mess."

A smirk twitched at the captain's lips. "Of course, my lord." After a bow so abbreviated it was more a nod, the man stepped away, down a few steps among the consoles. A push of a single button, and impenetrable ray shields snapped into existence with an actinic crackle, the depressions to both sides of the walkway locked away with shimmering blue and white. The captain shot the gathered strike team a last glance before putting his back on them, turning to his crew.

And Bastila could feel it, the sense obvious in the air. They weren't afraid. Not a one of them were afraid, not of her and the Jedi, not of the soldiers at their backs. Not of the battle raging just bare kilometers away. Focused, yes, nervous, yes, but afraid? Not even a little. Honestly, she wasn't surprised. They had Revan.  _The_  Revan. They had every reason to believe they'd be making it out of this in one piece.

Bastila suppressed the cold shiver working down her spine as well as she could.

Lightsabers losely gripped in his hands, deactivated for the moment, Kavar finally spoke. She wondered if that was what he'd been waiting for, for Revan to protect her men, what that said about Kavar, what that said about Revan. Perfectly calmly, as though they  _weren't_  confronting a Dark Lord, Kavar said, "I don't suppose you'd be willing to surrender."

"I don't suppose you would. Save me the trouble."  _Of killing you_ , she meant. She didn't seem even the slightest bit concerned, everything about her perfectly confident, that hint of humor still in her voice.

"You're outnumbered, you're cornered. You can't win, Lesami." Bastila blinked at Kavar's use of Revan's birth name — she hadn't heard it spoken aloud in years.

"Good point. It's not like I've ever been outnumbered before."

She shivered again. In part, it was Revan's voice, the way she said it, too calm, too confident, too light and sarcastic. In part, it was the truth in what she said. This was  _Revan_. If numbers were all it took, she'd have been defeated long ago.

Not for the first time, Bastila had to wonder if this assault weren't horribly misguided.

"You know what we must do." With the slightest flick, Kavar's twin blades came to life with the familiar cry of barely-contained plasma, his robes and his close-cropped hair awash in blue. The rest of the Jedi followed his lead, Bastila bringing her own blade hovering across her face in a guard. She could feel the fight coming upon them, hard and tense in the air, and she swallowed down the instinctive dread, focused on the here-and-now. "I am sorry, Lesami."

"We both have our regrets, Kavar. But, you're wrong."

Without a twitch, with hardly an instant's warning, a pulse of deadly power washed out from Revan in an inexorable wave. Bastila cringed away, reached without thought for the Force, struck out against the incoming blackness with an intangible blade. It broke around her, quickly dissolving into nothing.

The air broke with a staccato series of sharp snaps. Bastila glanced behind her, toward the sound of weight slumping toward the floor, and jerked away, failing to hold in a gasp of shock. All the remaining troopers and one of the Jedi, a Bith named Tak'ak Bastila had never met before, had fallen, dead. Their heads had been jerked around,  _all_  the way around, shards of bone splitting skin, blood slowly pooling on polished gray metal. They were  _dead_ , just  _like that_ , in an  _instant_ —

_There is no emotion; there is peace. There is no emotion; there is peace. There is no—_

Voice still smooth and terrifyingly calm, filling the room, Revan said, "There is  _always_  a choice." And she moved.

Kavar darted forward to meet her, so quick they were both blurs, but Revan ducked under his blades, her cloak whirling about her, and she was behind him, thrusting both hands forward to nearly meet his back. Kavar was taken from his feet, rocketing away toward the far bulkhead with deadly speed, and Revan was already moving, appearing among them in the blink of an eye. A clench of a fist and Koran's head imploded with a sickening crunch, blood and brain streaming through the air, verdant light was descending for Revan's neck but was met with violet, sprung from Revan's right hand, a bloody blade appearing in the other, Yurishtal was disemboweled before he could pull away. Anis and Bastila were falling upon him, blue and yellow lightsabers inches away when the tang of ozone suddenly filled the air, Bastila barely caught a bolt of purple-blue lightning against her blade, deflecting it into the ceiling, but still her skin tingled with power, her stomach turned at the waves of darkness washing over her, the force enough she was pushed backward, boots sliding against the deck with a high squeak, Anis had caught hers with her bare hand, flesh burning and fur singeing, but she held on, face twisted into a snarl, even as Revan stepped toward her, the purple blade moving in to—

And suddenly Kavar was there, the death blow turned aside with violence enough Revan was unbalanced, the lightning fading away, grasping for the red lightsaber she'd kept floating at her side. And Jedi Master and Sith Lord descended into a flickering storm of motion, skipping back and forth, blades moving so quickly they painted the air with solid swirls of blue and red and violet, green and yellow joining the display as Anis and Davon moved in, trying to circle to Revan's back, but she darted away, spinning around, kept the Jedi to one side, outmaneuvering them with casual ease, the Knights reduced to an occasional swipe past the Master's side, all but useless.

Bastila didn't join them, standing back. Instead she took a slow, deep breath, sank deep into herself, and reached outward.

Ever since she'd been the greenest initiate, back in the earliest days of her training at the Temple on Coruscant, Bastila had had a gift for perceiving and influencing the minds of other beings. She hadn't even needed to be taught, it was just... It was intuitive to her. She couldn't explain it, had never been able to, no matter how many times fascinated instructors and masters had asked. She would know what people were feeling, sometimes even their explicit thoughts, without having to try. (She had the feeling she'd  _always_  done that, since she'd been a small child. Might have had something to do with why her parents had surrendered her to the Jedi in the first place.) She could get people to do simple things — answer her questions, hand her things, minor compulsions that only required a few seconds' influence — simply by  _wanting_  them to happen. It could be difficult to  _avoid_  doing it sometimes, she had to be mindful, constantly aware of what she was doing just to stop herself. The greater compulsions weren't quite so natural, but they'd always come easily to her as well. It had never been difficult for her, any of it.

Fortunate, really — it was very possible her development in other areas had lagged behind a bit. Her own special talent was generally enough for most people to overlook mild weaknesses elsewhere.

Starting a few years ago, though, it had started to get...odd. She'd noticed it the first time during a practice duel between two fellow padawans. She'd been able to feel their... Oh, she never could decide on the word for it. Their feelings, but not  _just_  their feelings, their movements, but not  _just_  their movements. She'd been able to feel it, everything they were doing, not just the placement of each limb, each breath and each twitch, but their intentions in doing so. And not just the two of them individually, but how their senses of themselves and their opponent fluctuated moment to moment, the back and forth of the duel forming an almost tactile presence before her. She'd been able to  _see_  the balance of their duel before her, as though their performance, the balance of advantage within it, were a physical thing she could touch or taste.

A couple weeks later, she'd realized she could put her finger on the scales. She could prop one combatant up, or sabotage them. Make them quicker or slow them, slip an extra bit of grace into their movements or set them to stumble. She could sharpen their vision or blur it, turn their thoughts quick and focused or slow and distracted. Any contest performed in her presence was decided before it began: she could choose the winner, and that was that.

The fight before her now was... _more_ , different than any she'd ever felt. Mostly, it was Kavar and Revan who made it so. Every Jedi had a slightly different presence in the Force, distinct enough it was more identifiable than anything physical. Kavar didn't feel entirely like himself, descended into a deep trance, sunk far into intuition, power flowing through him in an unceasing wellspring of light, nearly overwhelming. Revan's presence was just as immediate, just as monolithic, but focused where Kavar was detached, mind and power narrowed to a razor edge. Before the dueling giants, the two knights were hardly perceptible, lost in the background of suffocating light and blazing shadow.

Normally, in a fight, she would be able to follow the movements, she could see it all, highlighted with supernatural clarity. Even whole battles, hundreds of ships carrying thousands of beings, all of it arrayed before her. But this, this she couldn't follow. They were just too  _fast_ , sabers clashing and repositioning too quickly for her to keep up, moving, the angles between the combatants shifting, the Force swirling about them, into and through them, doing  _something_  she couldn't even say, advantage slipping from one to the other before she could properly read it.

But she didn't have to be able to read it. She leaned on them, not so much putting her finger on the scales as slamming her hand down as hard as she could, power moving through her so thick and so quickly her muscles twitched, her blood burned. It hurt, rather more than she'd expected — physical bodies could only channel so much power at once, after all, and she'd had little reason to push that boundary in the past — but she didn't let herself waver, but pushed, pushed,  _pushed_ —

She had only the barest of warnings. If she hadn't been so deeply fallen into the Force, she likely wouldn't have felt it coming at all. A sudden flare of alarm, her entire body giving a hard thrum of imminent danger, Bastila leaned, stumbled backward. Her eyes focused on the here-and-now just in time to see a purple lightsaber sail through where her head had been an instant ago.

Despite herself, she froze, trapped under the gaze of the Dark Lord. Her hood had fallen back at some point during the fight, but Bastila couldn't see her face — she still wore her famous Mandalorian mask, gleaming  _beskar_  colored red and black, the paint chipped away here and there but the underlying metal still impenetrable. Bastila couldn't see Revan's eyes, but she could  _feel_  the Dark Lord's attention on her, pressing in all around her, frigid and intense and suffocating, as though she were standing at the icy bottom of an ocean. She couldn't move a muscle, could only stand and stare back, feeling all too tiny (despite being nearly a head taller), all too vulnerable, helpless, her reflection in the empty visor swiftly paling.

After a short silence, a short stillness, Revan only said, "You are something."

Then Revan was moving again, meeting Kavar in an incomprehensible tumult of motion and color. And Bastila was — somehow, miraculously — still alive. She came to understand, slowly, as she tried to get herself moving again over the next couple seconds, that Revan had  _spared_  her, consciously chosen to let her live.

She had absolutely no idea what to think about that.

The fight dragged on for what felt like hours, but could only be but minutes. Her battle meditation obviously useless against the Dark Lord, Bastila joined the fight more directly, but she wasn't doing much good. She and the two Knights, as they tried to circle around, tried to get a shot in at Revan, she could only think they were getting in the way. Revan maneuvered around them with casual grace, batted their clumsy assaults aside with contemptuous ease. Kavar was the only one who seemed to be making any showing of himself at all. While she and Anis and Davon were forced back occasionally, by either lightning or blunt force summoned from the ether, one time a  _gout of purple flames_  that had Bastila skipping back and cursing under her breath, Kavar and Revan stayed toe-to-toe, lightsabers meeting and retreating and meeting again, the dance so fast they drew a solid web around them. They three could dart in and nip at the sides here and there, but Bastila couldn't help feeling their efforts were worse than useless.

That feeling only intensified when Anis fell to the floor, neatly bisected, dead so quickly she hadn't made a sound. Bastila hadn't even seen the blow that had taken her life, so sudden it had been, and she'd been standing  _right next to her_.

As the fight dragged on and on, Bastila's limbs growing gradually heavier, sweat stinging at her eyes, she and Davon too obviously slowing, even Kavar turning tense, his movements tighter, less wasted energy, striking more cautiously, while Revan still seemed singularly composed,  _casual_ , she couldn't help the feeling, she knew this fight would last  _exactly_  how long Revan wished it. As soon as she wanted them dead, it would be so.

And then, all at once, the four of them froze. She and Davon gasping, even Kavar seemingly at least slightly breathless, all of them focused on something else. A feeling, a blanket of descending doom, overwhelming, she could feel it falling, noise and terror and agony and death, only seconds away. But the feeling was too diffuse, too  _large_ , she couldn't tell where it was coming from, what it was. The Force wasn't even telling her which way to move, she was getting nothing. Only danger, imminent danger, that she was helpless to protect herself against.

The other two Jedi seemed as clueless as her. But Revan, she had turned away from them, head tipped to look out one of the windows. At the Sith capital ship there, slowly tumbling in place, a maneuver of some kind Bastila couldn't read. Lowly, talking to herself, even as the shields above them started to flare white with deadly radiance, Revan muttered, "Alek, you stupid son of a—"

And then everything was noise, and fire, and the rushing blackness of hard vacuum.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beskar —  _For any who don't know, this is the word in Mando'a for the infamously nigh-indestructible metal the Mandalorians use for almost everything._
> 
> * * *
> 
> _This will feature a lot of shit going on that is simply not an option in the original game, the plot only loosely paralleling that in canon. Plus my usual fucking with the worldbuilding, of course. Theoretically, this fic should run through both KotOR games, but the transition might be slightly awkward, so._


	2. Cianen Hayal

Cianen Hayal idly tapped her fingernails against the glass, trying to contain her impatience. Because, of course, they just  _had_  to be late to their meeting. She really shouldn't have expected any differently.

If she were to wait, this wasn't a bad place to do her waiting in. They'd left it up to her where exactly to make their introductions, so Cianen had picked her favorite of the restaurants she'd found in these last weeks wandering the Senate District of Coruscant. To be somewhat more precise, the favorite among those she'd found that weren't so ridiculously expensive the University wouldn't cover her expenses. This was the  _Senate District of Coruscant_ , after all, the area had quite literally the highest standard of living in the entire galaxy. From the statistics she'd looked up in idle moments, even the waitstaff around here made a wage that would see them easily in the upper class on most Rim worlds. Yet even that wasn't enough to afford the meanest of housing within the bounds of the district itself — they all had to commute at least twenty kilometers, often significantly more.

Anyway, it was a rather nice place. All gleaming rosewood tables, carpets and drapes in reds and blacks, curtains filtering the sunlight, setting everything to a ruddy glow, some sort of sonic dampening tech reducing the conversations at the other tables to an incomprehensible murmur — but, somehow, allowing light music, an absolutely ancient Alderaanian piece played by a being of a species she didn't recognise at a real  _piano_  of all things, to slip through unmuffled. The menu wasn't bad, if somewhat too exotic in places, so far as human consumption was concerned. Perhaps rather more pricey than she'd ever be able to afford herself, but that's what the expense account was for.

So she waited, sipping away at a procession of sweetened monstrosities that  _supposedly_  had caf in them (she wasn't convinced). Flipping through journals she had saved on her datapad, ignoring the time displayed mockingly in the corner, trying to ignore her own annoyance.

Honestly, the red tape the Jedi forced people to go through. Sure, they had found some previously unexplored ruins on Dantooine. Sure, they'd wanted a xenolinguist to supplement their own team. Sure, the University of Aldera was one of the best places in the galaxy to borrow one from. But did they really have to make the thing so  _difficult?_  It had taken  _weeks_  of debate for both the University and the Jedi to agree on her, and  _then_  she'd been here for  _a couple more weeks_  for those damn interviews. Some sort of psych eval, apparently, to decide if they could trust her with...she wasn't sure, exactly. It wasn't like their investigation was classified or anything, she'd asked explicitly if she'd be able to publish whatever they found and been told that would be fine. But, who knew with Jedi? They could be so irrational about things sometimes.

There was a reason most of academia was wary when it came to working with the Jedi. It could be  _very_  rewarding, of course, but they did tend to be...weird. Not to mention their bad habit of destroying artifacts or blacklisting sites — there was no telling how much had been lost during their so-called "Great Hunt", nor how long it would be until they lifted the blanket ban on any travel to Yavin IV. The Jedi did have a wealth of resources, and boasted some of the most uncorrupted scholars in the galaxy, but any work with them carried risks.

The point was, she was nearing the end of her patience. That she'd tolerated their delays and runarounds this long was rather magnanimous of her, she felt. After weeks of absurd negotiations, after weeks of pointless interviews, after days just  _waiting_  for her escort to reach Coruscant, now she was waiting  _hours_  for her contacts to finally get their butts down here. Honestly, why did she even  _need_  a special escort to Dantooine? It was just Dantooine! The Jedi had regular shuttles going out to the place at least every week, they wouldn't have even had to tweak their schedule, and she would already be there! It was so stupid, she was so  _tired_  of waiting for them to get their blasted act together.

Luckily for the last dregs of her sanity, her wait was finally over. They hadn't gotten to her table yet, no, they had just walked in the door, but all the same Cianen knew it was them as clearly as though they'd been announced. The people who frequented this place were mostly lower-level functionaries, perhaps ambassadorial staff from far-flung systems — irrespective of species and background, they had a way about them, a common set of habits and expectations that was identifiable in the way they dressed, the way they moved. The social environment at Aldera was similar enough Cianen was familiar with it, could blend in without too much trouble.

These two definitely didn't belong.

The first was a human woman, in tightly-tailored yet modest tunic and pants in pale orange and Republic red, brown hair cut short and bound sharply back, almost painfully practical. Her eyes darted around the room, hard and knowing, almost  _too_  knowing, that way some people had of looking at someone and seeming to  _know_  them, in an instant. (Cianen's gaze did the same thing, so she was well aware how unnerving people could find it.) There was something about the way she held herself, the way she walked — call it confidence, power, arrogance — whatever it was, Cianen didn't need the long lightsaber clipped to her hip to know this woman was a Jedi.

Just as she didn't need the red and gold Republic uniform to know the human man following at the Jedi's heel was military — he had the proper dignified posture, the almost regimented discipline in his gait. Though he wasn't  _perfectly_  regulation. His dark hair was a bit longer than she thought was normal, flipping over his forehead in wispy curls, a bit more scruff on his face. A long cloak of thick, brown cloth half-hid the uniform, blasters just peeking out at each hip, not standard at all. Not to mention his expression, an almost petulant glare fixed on the Jedi's back. Enough personality to him she  _almost_  couldn't imagine he'd been put together on an assembly line somewhere.

She had encountered droids with plenty of personality, after all.

The Jedi didn't even hesitate for a moment. Hands folded at the small of her back, she wound her way through the tables, breezing right past the flustered hostess without a word — if she weren't Caamasi there might have been a bit more of a reaction to that flagrant rudeness — making straight for Cianen. She'd probably been sent a holo or something. Oh, sure, if asked the Jedi would claim she'd  _sensed her through the Force_  or whatever, they did like their whole mysterious ethos they had going, but the mundane explanation was far simpler. In a moment she was standing at the opposite side of Cianen's table, glaring down at her, face so tightly expressionless it was rigid. "Professor Hayal?"

Not moving an inch from where she sat reclined in her chair, Cianen lifted her glass in a little salute. She took a sip, drawing it out longer than necessary, before returning it to the surface. Eyes falling back to her datapad, she said, "You're late, Master Jedi. I was told to expect you—" A quick glance at the time. "—nearly three hours ago."

Cianen wasn't looking directly at her, maintaining her illusion of apathetic inattention, but she still caught the flash of a dark glower crossing the Jedi's face, there for the shortest instant before wiping away again. Hmm, odd — were Jedi even allowed to glower?  _There is no passion_ , and all that. After a second of silence, the Jedi found her voice again. "My deepest apologies, Professor." Cianen blinked — were Jedi even allowed sarcasm? "We were held up on the way down to the surface longer than expected."

Personally, she found it hard to believe this Jedi could be unfamiliar with the frustrations of Coruscant traffic. But she shrugged it off. "No matter. Have a seat," she said, nodding at the empty seats around her table. "Lunch is on me." Or, on the University, anyway, but it made little difference. "Well, more like dinner now, I suppose."

The military man let out a snort at that, but accepted a seat gracefully enough. The Jedi hesitated a moment longer but, after an almost helpless glance at the man, collapsed into a seat with a thin sigh. "Very well. The  _Spire_  won't be finished tripling for a few hours in any case."

Cianen was confused for a moment, before it came to her — Navy slang from refueling, restocking, and rearming, the three Rs. Right. "The  _Spire?_ "

The man got to it before the Jedi did. "The  _Endar Spire_ , it's a  _Hammerhead_  light cruiser with the Third Fleet. And we never did get to introductions, did we?" Sticking a hand out over the table, lips tilting into a smirk, "Captain Carth Onasi."

She couldn't help the twitching of her own lips at the Jedi's wince. Taking his hand, "Cianen Hayal."

Onasi frowned at the name. "Alderaanian?"

"The name is, yes." And his was of Corellian extraction, of course, but Cianen couldn't even begin to guess which planet he was actually from. Corellians had spread themselves so widely across the galaxy it could be any of thousands of worlds. By contrast, Alderaanian colonies were few, probably less than a hundred worlds concentrated in the core, only a few trailing out along the Perlemian. They did have minority populations on a wealth of other worlds, but humans of Alderaanian descent were still far less ubiquitous than those of Corellian, hence his surprise at her name.

It was actually rather fascinating, human language groups. Other species had colonised alien worlds, of course, but humans have been doing it longer than almost anyone else, and had spread to many times more. For most of recorded history, it had been assumed humans had originally evolved on Coruscant — no primary evidence had survived, but that was the general feeling in any case. (There had been alternative theories, but those had been summarily quashed when, about three hundred years ago, the Columi had handed over sensor records of an early industrial society on what would become Coruscant dating to roughly a hundred thousand years ago.) Even before the advent of hyperdrive, their ancestors had flung out sleeper ships in all directions, to dozens of worlds. The descendents of the original settlers eventually spread to more worlds, bringing their language and culture with them.

Fascinatingly, all evidence suggested the ancient humans of Coruscant hadn't all spoken one language — the different cultural groups spread all across the galaxy spoke different, sometimes completely unrelated languages. Basic, the core of which was generally assumed to have evolved on Coruscant (though it has borrowed heavily from other languages both human and alien since), was seemingly related to the languages of Corellia, however distantly. Finding cognates could be a bit complicated, since they'd both borrowed from Duros languages, some of which were extinct in the modern day, but there were far too many phonological, syntactic, and lexical similarities for it to be coincidence. Similarly, Tionese and Kuati languages seemed to be related.

There was one example Cianen still couldn't get over. It had been repeatedly postulated that it was  _possible_  human communities, when isolated on an alien world for long enough, might see enough genetic drift to eventually become a distinct species. Several alien species were far too similar to baseline humans for it to be coincidence, it had been frequently suggested they and humans had common ancestry. (They hadn't any original records on the sleeper ships or their destinations, after all.) One example were the Zeltrons, long assumed to be distant relatives, though genetic confirmation had been slow. Linguists at the time, though, quickly realized the majority language of Zeltros was, quite clearly, a member of the same family as Old Alderash — Zeltrons and Alderaanians were distant cousins. She'd first heard the story, how linguists had proved the existence of the extended human family before biologists had gotten there, when she'd been a small child, had had an enduring fascination for language ever since.

The original point, before she got distracted, was that Corellians and Alderaanians had once spoken completely unrelated languages. They'd gone extinct in favor of Basic millennia ago now, but the traditional languages were still preserved in names. It wasn't at all unreasonable for Onasi to recognize the name as Alderaanian.

Yes, back to the conversation. She had a bad habit of letting her mind wander. "Well, I apologize in advance for taking up space on your ship, Captain."

An expression of confusion crossed Onasi's face for a second, followed with a sharp guffaw of surprise. "No, no, I'm not a  _navy_  captain. The  _Spire_ 's commander is Artik Kre'laq." Hmm, that name  _could_  be Caamasi, but they were hardly ever found in the military. Bothan was far more likely, for cultural reasons. "I'm with Starfighter Command."

"Ah." That did explain rather a lot, actually. A greater degree of minute-to-minute creativity was often prized in fighter pilots, the sort of individuality basic training was designed to squash more often than not nurtured instead. Onasi's slightly off-color presentation made perfect sense now. But anyway, "Picking up the civilian beneath the good Captain's dignity, I take it."

A smirk again twitched at Onasi's lips. "Something like that."

"Would it be safe to assume, given that he sent you in his place, that the two of you don't exactly get along?"

"Far be it from me to correct the fancy Alderaanian professor."

"Mm." The server wandered up around then, a Caamasi with almost glowing golden fur by the name of Araqos. When she'd first started wandering the District, she'd been a bit blindsided by how many places here had living waitstaff — at least throughout the core, droids were used almost exclusively. Perhaps the powerful, so thickly concentrated here like they were nowhere else, simply enjoyed having people to order about. Though, this place specifically, maybe they just felt like it. Caamasi could be weird like that sometimes. Onasi made his order easily enough — he did horridly mispronounce  _ynari ak-qhuguel_ , but Araqos had to be used to aliens slaughtering Caamasi by now. The Jedi just waved Araqos off without a word, not even looking at him, still blandly staring at Cianen's collarbone.

Wow.  _Rude_.

After mumbling an apology in Caamasi — Araqos just cheerfully brushed it off, wandered away again — Cianen turned back to the Jedi. And she smiled. It wasn't a  _nice_  one, exactly, the sort of inoffensive smile that hid cruelty just beneath. It only took a week or two for her grad students to learn to fear this smile. Holding her hand out over the table, Cianen said, "And  _you_  are?"

The Jedi didn't reach to take her hand. Instead, her eyes flicked down to it, almost seeming to glare. And, wow,  _rude_  again. What was her problem? Voice low, flat, cold, "Bastila Shan." Cianen entirely forgot her planned mockery when she recognized the name.

She wasn't exactly a fan of the Jedi, but she still knew who this was.  _Everybody_  knew who Bastila Shan was. A Kuati Jedi — at least, the name was Kuati, who knew where she was actually from — of this newest generation, come to Knighthood after the Mandalorian Wars. While still young, not as thoroughly accomplished as some other Jedi she could name, Shan had somehow made herself absolutely critical to the Republic war effort. Something the Jedi called "battle meditation", though Cianen had no clue what that was. Which was slightly irritating, actually, she  _liked_  knowing things, but the Jedi could be infuriatingly vague about their own abilities. But even the hardest of skeptics could recognize the pattern: any battle where Bastila Shan happened to be present ended in the Republic's favor.

These days, it seemed their  _only_  victories were (somehow, inexplicably) thanks to this one Jedi. It was...interesting, how people spoke of her these days. Disturbingly messianic at times, but still interesting.

Oh, not to mention, there was also that whole killing Revan business. Though apparently that had been more Kavar than Shan. But still.

Cianen remembered herself after a few seconds, letting her hand fall away. "Well. Are you sure you wouldn't rather order something, Master Jedi? You might just make Araqos's day. You know how his people can be about the Jedi."

"Araqos?"

"Our waiter. You know, the one you completely ignored."

Shan just stared back at her, eyes slightly narrowed.

The flash of annoyance was entirely unexpected, but Cianen didn't bother fighting it. "I wonder, do they give you Jedi etiquette lessons, or is teaching you to behave like people considered counterproductive?"

A storm of spluttering and coughing sounded from her right. Sounded like Onasi had snorted into his water. Shan shot in his direction what could  _almost_  be considered a disgusted look, if it weren't buried under several kilometers of Jedi self-importance — excuse her, she meant  _serenity_. After a second of not-glaring, Shan turned back to Cianen, shooting her would could  _almost_  be considered an offended look, if it weren't blah blah blah. "I can see I'm not needed here. Until it is time to return to the  _Spire_ , I will be at the Temple library. Finding something  _productive_  to do." The Jedi swung up to her feet and swirled away, in something just shy of a huff.

Cianen watched her leave, shaking her head to herself. "Is she always like that?"

"Yes." The word was said with an impressive depth of weariness — Shan's attitude was apparently a frequent frustration for Onasi. "You get used to it."

She turned to the older man, a single eyebrow ticking up her forehead.

For a second he held out, sipping at his water again, but then he winced. "Okay, you don't, really. She's... Well, she's mostly holed up with the rest of the Jedi. You won't see very much of her, don't worry."

"Hmm." That was something at least. Though, the phrase  _rest of the Jedi_  was less than reassuring, at least she wouldn't have to put up with Shan much at all. Dantooine wasn't really that far away, and then that would be that.

After all, it wasn't like the Republic could afford to have  _Bastila Shan_  of all people babysitting linguistics professors poking about ruins.

* * *

Carth was more than a little surprised, walking into the flight officers' lounge, to spot their unusual guest already sitting at the game table.

It'd been a couple days now, and he still wasn't sure what to think of this Hayal woman. She was a civilian, one unapologetically critical of the Republic war effort at that, which would ordinarily find him predisposed to think less than flattering thoughts. Not only that, but she was an academic type, one whose every word and every gesture and every inch and every stitch gave every implication of privilege. He'd pegged her at a glance as the pampered daughter of some coreborn asshole riding high and arrogant on inherited wealth, at an overview of her background one who had thrown herself into scholarship simply because she couldn't imagine anything else to do with her life.

He'd met such types before. It never took them long to start grating on his nerves.

But something threw him off about Hayal. He couldn't put his finger on exactly what, it bothered him. For one thing, he  _still_  didn't know what in the seven hells she was doing here. Sure, the Jedi had found some ruins outside their enclave on Dantooine, they wanted a qualified xenolinguist to look over the inscriptions there, and there were precious few institutions held in higher regard than the University of Aldera, fine. That did make sense...if you didn't look at it too hard. See, the University had a satellite campus on Generis, which happened to be in the same general area of the galaxy as Dantooine — Carth had checked, and they even had a sizeable archeology department. It would be far more convenient to pull specialists from there than all the way from Alderaan itself. Having her meet them in Coruscant was slightly odd, but it  _was_  on the way from Alderaan to Dantooine, so not that strange, not so much as having them meet her at all.

Seriously, why the  _fuck_  were they escorting her to Dantooine themselves?  _Why?_  Why the  _Endar Spire_ , why the entire battle group? It made  _absolutely no sense_. Every second they spent shuttling this academic to Dantooine, a mission that had  _nothing_  to do with the war effort, the Sith were advancing. Advances the Navy, without the advantage given by Bastila's damn magic tricks, had little hope of throwing back. Why, why,  _why_  were they here?

For that matter, why were they transporting  _just Hayal?_  If they had to see this diversion through, which was incomprehensible to begin with, but if they must, why only the  _one_  expert? Surely, any archeological endeavor needed more than one person. He was hardly informed about such things at all himself, but even  _he_  knew that. Would she be joining with a team out of Generis? That sort of made sense. But if they had their own team, why did they need Hayal at all? Surely they had their own xenolinguists. Was she simply that highly regarded in her field? He guessed that was possible, but she seemed a little young for it — it took time to develop that sort of expertise and authority, time she simply wasn't old enough to have had.

No. No, it didn't make any sense at all. Something else was at work here.

The problem was, he couldn't  _begin_  to guess at what.

Not only did contradictions abound in their mission, but also in the woman herself. The few conversations he'd had with her so far, yes, she'd taken every opportunity to express disdain for the Republic leadership. But, at the same time, she'd shown himself and the servicemen aboard the Endar Spire nothing but respect. And the Jedi, considering she was a privileged academic, and the Jedi considered themselves scholars before anything else, one would expect them to...well, if not agree on anything, at least be civil. To put it lightly, yeah, not so much. For a second there, he'd been sure Hayal was going to punch Rast right in his self-righteous, sneering, condescending snout.

(He'd been disappointed when she'd just walked out in a dignified huff. He'd have paid good money to see that.)

He didn't know why it bothered him so much. It just did. There was something about what she was and what she so clearly believed that didn't quite...fit. He was missing something, some large facet of her identity, her purpose here, that would bring it all together, explain the grating juxtapositions that made up the confusing woman. He had no idea what it could be, couldn't even begin to guess.

Whatever it was, it would have to be something truly unexpected to explain  _this_.

It wasn't unusual, not at all, for him to walk into the lounge to find his subordinates some distance into a sabaac game, and some distance further into their drinks. As long as things didn't get out of hand, he was inclined to allow it, and even encourage it — as horridly as the war was going, he'd take almost anything that could keep morale up. He'd participated in more than one game himself, though he wasn't a sabaac man, and never allowed himself to touch any drink with a drop of alcohol.

He'd seen a lot of...odd things, walking into the lounge. Confirming the prostitutes his men had  _somehow_  snuck aboard weren't slaves remained one of the most humiliating experiences of his life. But he certainly hadn't expected to see Professor Cianen Hayal. In the middle of a rowdy game of sabaac with officers from both Starfighter Command and the Navy, the pink in her face and the width of her grin clear sign she'd had more than a couple drinks.

For a moment he just stood in the doorway, observing the scene with dumbfounded disbelief.

Finally, he shook himself. Nodding and waving back at the officers who called to him, he made his way toward the game table. He chose a chair occupied by Dynal, a naval officer he'd spoken to all of once, propped himself up against the back with both arms. "Professor."

Hayal glanced toward him, only her eyes moving. Her thin, delicate face, complete with the sloping Alderaanian nose, was held in something severe, distant — clearly her sabaac face. But her eyes were a warm brown, the mirth filling them almost visible from across the table. "Captain. I see you've decided to lower yourself to sit with the common officers." Hayal had one of those low, smooth voices, every syllable light and precise with an unmistakable upper-class coreworlds accent, only slightly slurred now by whatever she was drinking.

After letting the guffaws and gentle ribbing from that comment die down a little, he said, "I see you have. Didn't take you for a gambling woman, Professor."

"I'm not, truly." She shifted a little, settling herself more comfortably against the Bothan at her side. "It's more the company I'm interested in."

Carth cut another quick glance at the Bothan. And then immediately did a double-take, somehow stopping his mouth from dropping open. He still wasn't perfect at telling Bothans apart, but that... Was that  _Asyr Lar'sym?_  The black silver fur, the piercings arrayed through her long right ear, Carth had had the Bothan woman practically forced on him as a squadron commander about a year ago now, and while he'd been a bit miffed about it at the time, he'd found he couldn't complain about it too much — she was, after all,  _very_  good. But then, that was the way of Bothans, wasn't it, to be  _very good_  at whatever it was they chose to do. While he'd mostly gotten over it by now, getting Lar'sym to do pretty much anything sociable with any of the rest of his pilots, even her own squadron, was an uphill battle. She could be found in the lounge sometimes, yes, but almost always by herself in a corner, perhaps talking to one or two others brave enough to approach the standoffish, bristly woman.

But then, that was the way of Bothans, wasn't it? They weren't exactly a sociable people. If a Bothan started being friendly with him, he'd know to start checking his back for knives slipped between his ribs.

But there she was, sitting next to Hayal at the game table. Not playing herself — her chair was set a bit back, no cards in hand — but present, which was itself unusual. Even more unusual, she... Well, when he'd walked in Hayal had been sitting an inch from leaning against Lar'sym's shoulder, and with that comment about the company that inch had disappeared. Lar'sym had shot a flat look at the top of Hayal's head but, with an almost exasperated huff, lifted her arm out of the way, moved it instead to drape over Hayal's shoulders, down her side. Then turned a threatening glare on the rest of the room, as though daring them to say anything.

Carth wouldn't dream of it, despite how... Well, they  _did_  look a bit ridiculous, was all. Lar'sym was, well, a Bothan — while not a tall race, they were powerful, thick and muscular. The long, dense fur that covered them head to toe only made them look larger than they actually were. Hayal, on the other hand, was a tiny, scrawny little thing. He wasn't a tall man himself, but she  _barely_  topped his shoulders, and he'd be shocked if she weighed much more than fifty kilos. Lar'sym might easily be twice her size. But, as odd as it was, it wasn't the first time he'd seen something of the like — interspecies couples could get like that sometimes.

Speaking of interspecies couples, were they...? Well, that hadn't taken very long. Hayal had barely even been on the ship for two days. He had no idea how the hell she'd managed to get through to Lar'sym so quickly, but good on her, he guessed.

Personally, he couldn't imagine sleeping with a Bothan. Mostly it was the claws. And the teeth. And everything around the teeth, for that matter — he still wasn't sure how exactly kissing was supposed to work when the other person was of a species with a prominent snout. Not to mention Bothans were, well,  _Bothans_. They weren't exactly known for their warm and charming personalities. But, to each their own.

He'd been  _more_  than distracted enough by that thought. Pulling himself back to the present moment, he nodded down to the table. "You seem to be doing just fine to me." Indeed she was. Gambling technically wasn't allowed in the Republic fleet, but it was perfectly fine if no money was actually changing hands — they didn't even use real chits, the game table instead projecting stacks of holographic ones before each player. Of the eight who had started, three were still in the game. He only even knew there had been eight to begin with from the text and images on the surface, three of the seats were empty, the defeated players having already left. Judging by the illusory chits before the three players, Hayal was far ahead, Ferlip was just barely comfortable, and Dynal would probably be wiped out in the next couple hands.

Hayal's lips tilted into a smirk. "I never said I wasn't good at it."

Grumbling into his cards, Dynal muttered, "Bloody lucky is what she is."

Despite how quiet he'd been, Lar'sym obviously heard him, letting out a thick snort, the fur of her face shifting in a wave. Carth knew Bothan expressions were mostly carried in those small flutterings, but he had absolutely no idea how to read any of it. Even though Hayal hadn't been looking, she had a better idea than he did. "Oh, don't mind him,  _hjAsythe_. Few enough can remain graceful when faced with abject defeat."

One of the pilots, Carth didn't catch who, taunted, "So you know, she said it all bookish, but that was Cianen calling you a sore loser."

"I got that, thanks."

Carth stood and watched the next few hands pass, watching Hayal and his pilots. Trying to get what the fuck was going on here to make sense in his head. It didn't take very long for Dynal to be wiped out completely, and he stood to leave, grumbling to himself. Carth didn't entirely blame him — Hayal managed to draw into a negative twenty-one after the shift, lucky as hell. While Carth took the abandoned seat, Hayal and Ferlip quickly agreed the game was over. (That tended to happen when just playing for fun, sabaac didn't hold up nearly as well with only two players.) And the table switched off, the chits vanishing, displays going dark, the cards stacked before Ferlip returning to simple plastic.

Cards rapidly shuffling in hand, so quick they were but a blur in Carth's eyes, Ferlip asked, "Were we going again?" The words were quick, light, as Ferlip always spoke. Carth wasn't familiar with Ferlip's species — with how many peoples there were in the galaxy, knowing all of them was practically impossible. It was in his file, but Carth couldn't pronounce it. For that matter, nobody could pronounce his name properly either, but everyone just called him Ferlip. Carth wasn't entirely sure if "he" was even appropriate, he'd heard people use multiple different genders with Ferlip, and he never corrected anyone one way or the other. (Carth defaulted to masculine pronouns, just because.) Always struck Carth as vaguely avian, thin and delicate, with a long, pointy head, a thin coating of colorful purple and golden feathers, lightly dancing hands ending in noticeable points. He was quick as anything, with frankly inhuman reflexes and reaction times. Clever as hell, too. Which made Ferlip one of his best pilots, so when it came down to it he really didn't give a shit what species or gender he was.

A few others around the table quickly agreed. Hayal hesitated a moment, turned a bit to look up at Lar'sym. The Bothan let out a huff. Levering her shoulder a bit, forcing Hayal to sit up, there was a brief, muttered exchange between them, though Carth didn't understand a word — apparently, Hayal spoke Bothan. Then Lar'sym was on her feet, walking off toward the kitchen, Hayal turning back to the table. "Sure, I'm in for one more. Captain?"

It looked like a few others were moving to speak, but Ferlip got there first. Ferlip always got there first. "The Captain is a pazaac man."

Grinast, a couple seats around the table, said, "Fucking children's game, is what that is."

There was a bit of jeering at that, but Carth ignored it with the ease of long practice. "Ah, I can make an exception this once. I'm in."

For the first few hands, Carth was quiet, observing, working out the puzzle in his head. The conversation at the table was composed mostly of taunts and easy banter — his pilots were clearly comfortable with Hayal here, she'd apparently managed to insert herself as one of the group. It just didn't make a whole lot of sense. Lar'sym was strange enough. When she got back, a drink in each hand, Hayal went right back to leaning against her, sometimes flipping up her cards, muttering to each other in Bothan. That didn't make any sense, far as Carth had managed to read her Lar'sym was acting wildly out of character, but nothing else about this made any sense either.

He wasn't saying it was outside of the realm of possibility a passenger could get along with his people so easily. He just didn't get how  _Hayal_  had done it. Far as he'd put together so far, she was a pampered academic type. Civilians didn't get more civilian. But she'd slipped herself right in as though it were nothing, his people accepting her presence with apparently very little objection.

It was weird. It bothered him.

Finally, when it was his turn to deal, Carth decided he'd been quiet long enough. "So, Cianen," he said, shuffling. He'd noticed his pilots were calling her by her first name, had decided to follow along.

A single narrow eyebrow ticked up, a hint of a smile playing at her lips. "Yes, Captain?"

Carth blinked at the title for a second, then shrugged it off. After all, even when in very casual settings like this one, his pilots still observed the proprieties with him — she was probably following their lead, just as he was. "You're a bit of a puzzle, aren't you."

Hayal's eyes widened, showing every hint of polite surprise. The shade of a smirk kinda gave the game away, though. "Am I?"

"You can't expect I find people like you in here playing sabaac all the time." He started dealing out the cards, two to each player, the thin plastic sliding across the table until slapped down or snapped up.

Hayal let hers slide right off the table, deftly catching them before they fell in her lap. "I don't expect you have people like me on this ship very often at all." She did have a point there. Military capital ships didn't make a habit of ferrying professors around during war time.

A series of calls and bets made its way around, the table moving the holographic chits around at the players' command. When it came time to start the roll, Carth didn't start dealing out the new cards immediately, flicking the top one between his fingers. "Where does a linguistics professor from the University of Aldera pick up sabaac, anyway?" He passed out another round of cards. The players all locked in their cards, not really in any order, but whenever each had made their decision.

Carth was slightly surprised when Liera put down and locked her entire hand. It did make a sort of sense, though. By the rules they played, the cards would all be randomised exactly once, after the next round of betting. The exception were any cards played face-up — they wouldn't change, but everyone at the table could see what they were. Everyone was required to roll one card face-up, but any more than that was optional. Liera  _had_  locked in a good hand, adding up to twenty-two, which made it likely she'd win this one, but everyone else would know she was likely to win, which meant she'd also likely killed the rest of the betting. The take would be practically guaranteed, but less than it could be.

Like he had, Hayal didn't roll a card down right away, staring across the table at him. "You'd be surprised what grad students get up to." There was a bit of good-natured ribbing and chuckling at the obvious suggestiveness on her voice. She shook her head, locking in an eight of staves. "Really though, I picked it up back at home. An elder cousin taught me, used to bring me around to the cantina in the local spaceport."

Somehow, Carth really couldn't imagine Hayal of all people slumming it in a seedy spaceport cantina. Unless it was Alderaan, he guessed — he didn't think Alderaan really had seedy...well, anything. The wealthier of the coreworlds could be like that. Before the game could move on, Carth asked, "Which world?"

"Shelkonwa. My family are all farmers, I'm the first to even really make it offworld in generations. Though, most of my cousins are Republic military now, I suppose. Where are we going next in this little interrogation?"

Carth frowned to himself. Ignoring the few comments from the rest of the players, he waved for them to get going again, started passing out additional cards to those who asked for them. And tried again, futilely, to figure out what in the hell was going on.

Because, see, Hayal was obviously lying.

Oh, it was pretty enough of a story, explained a fancy professor being comfortable, well, doing  _this_ , quite neatly. But it was clearly a lie. He knew of Shelkonwa — it was in the Colonies, settled before the Republic by Alderaan, had remained a largely agrarian world over the millennia. The problem was, Hayal wasn't  _at all_  what he expected of someone from Shelkonwa. For one thing, her accent was completely wrong. She spoke clear, clipped, upper-class Basic, the sort of thing one only heard from natives of the wealthier core worlds, a privileged few from well-to-do families throughout the rim, and the Jedi. For all that Shelkonwa was a very old and well-off world, the people boasting all the benefits of an advanced social economy, it was still an agrarian world, with all that entails. He guessed Hayal could have gone to some effort to cover her native accent, but it felt too natural to him, too precise.

Not to mention, she didn't  _look_  like she should, if her story were true. She'd said her parents were farmers, which meant, obviously, she would have grown up on one. Children growing up on a farm tend to help with the work — and, even with modern technology, it tends not to be the easiest work in the galaxy. But, for all that there was a subtle hint of toned muscle along the visible length of her forearms, Carth had the very clear impression Hayal had never seen a day of manual labor in her life. She was just...too  _clean_. He didn't mean he would expect her to still have dirt on her years later, no, it...well, it was most obvious on her hands. Her fingers clearly visible, lightly holding her cards, it was clear she hardly had any calluses at all. Certainly not what he would expect to see, years later. No scars from the litany of nicks and scratches she should have gotten either. The skin of her arms and face was pale and clear, absent even the slightest signs of sun damage. None of it made any sense at all.

Unless she had undergone thorough cosmetic treatments to erase any sign of her relatively harsher youth, anyway — that certainly was possible. But, those kinds of treatments were  _extremely_  expensive, expensive enough he doubted a junior professor, even one with the University of Aldera, would be able to afford it.

No, put all together, that she was lying was the simpler explanation.

But... _why?_  That was the real problem. And, for all his thinking about it over the next few hands, he couldn't even begin to guess at an explanation.

Not that he thought she was a threat. No, the Jedi had requested her presence specifically, and she would have been thoroughly vetted before being let anywhere near the  _Endar Spire_. At the very least, he was certain the Jedi knew what was going on, and probably someone somewhere up the chain of command as well. He just had no clue what it could be.

And it bothered him.

He never did get back to what Hayal had (accurately) called an interrogation. There wasn't any point asking questions when he knew she was just going to lie to him.

* * *

The shift in the sound of her breathing was a subtle thing, nearly covered by the low rumble of a large ship in hyperspace. Subtle, but Cianen caught it all the same. She glanced toward the bed, Asyr visible in the light from her datapad as only a fuzzy outline. Not quite awake then, alright. Cianen sat back in her seat, returned to her reading.

She'd been trying to prepare however she could for the job the Jedi had recruited her for. The problem was, there wasn't much preparation to do. She'd read absolutely everything in the University records on the history of Dantooine; she'd managed to do that during only the two days she'd been on this ship, because there simply wasn't that much of it. Dantooine had only been discovered in the last century. The world was one of the few in this era to be surveyed by the Republic, and had thus been left open for colonization to whomever could get themselves there — given the climate and how isolated the world was, it had attracted a few farmers and not much else.

It was discovered a few years into the settlement that the Republic survey had been less than thorough: Dantooine was already inhabited by a sapient species. The Dantari, as they'd been named, were a mostly pastoral people, the small population divided into dozens of nomadic tribes. So far as anyone could tell, they had very little in the way of technology, hadn't even mastered agriculture. While seemingly peaceful — there had been zero reports of Dantari attacking settlers, and there was no evidence they even fought amongst themselves — they were very skittish, giving any offlander settlement a wide berth, fleeing at first sight. No attempts at contact so far had been successful, they always ran.

Curiously, the Dantari appeared to be human, or at least near-human. There were theories the Dantari were descendants of a lost colonization attempt, probably tens of thousands of years ago, given the loss of sophistication and the clear signs of genetic drift. While nobody had been able to confirm it yet, what with the Dantari always running away before anyone could get a blood sample, just by their appearance it seemed very likely.

The problem was, there was  _absolutely no record_  of a human settlement on the world. Or even in the whole sector! If anyone were to have colonized Dantooine in the (comparatively) recent past, it would have been the Anx — their worlds were focused in this sector, after all. When the Jedi founded their enclave there a few decades ago, they had claimed they were building it on the site of the ruins of a much older enclave abandoned centuries ago but, again, there was absolutely no evidence of that. The enclave  _was_  built on old ruins, yes, complete with a system of artificial catacombs running deep underground, but the assumption these were ruins of an old Jedi site were seemingly erroneous. According to the records the Jedi had given her, even their own scholars cast doubt on the idea.

It was  _possible_  the ruins under the enclave and the ruins bearing the inscriptions she'd been recruited to translate had been built by the same people. She just had no idea who they could be. The Dantari seemed an unlikely candidate. Given the location of Dantooine within the galaxy, other possibilities were the Gree or an ancient race known to the Jedi as the Kwa, both of which had been present in the region before the formation of the Republic. (Cianen had never even heard of the Kwa before, she should really consider making copies of as much of the Jedi-hoarded knowledge she could get her hands on while she still could.) If it were these Kwa, this job might take quite a while — the Jedi only had a tiny handful of artefacts, they'd never managed to crack their language.

There were a handful of other possibilities, spacefaring civilizations old enough to have built the ruins, old enough to have been active before the Anx started exploring the area. The problem was, nothing was local. From what she could tell, while the Gree and the Kwa were the closest neighbors, neither had expanded as far as Dantooine. No other known civilization had been anywhere even close.

Which wasn't outside the realm of possibility, for the ruins to have been built by an unknown ancient civilization. There were unidentified relics from thousands of worlds, unending question marks the galaxy over. The problem was, well, she seriously doubted she'd be able to translate these inscriptions the Jedi had referred to. Unless they got seriously lucky and it turned out to be Gree, or else some other previously deciphered language, it was pretty much hopeless. Without a litany of other sources, a few dozen other minds chipping away at the project, and at least a few decades to do it in...

Interpreting a previously unknown language wasn't exactly easy, after all. Far too often it was quite simply impossible.

Of course, the Jedi should know that well enough. Which really made her wonder, not for the first time, exactly what they wanted with her. Because she wasn't sure dragging her out here could be justified by their stated reasoning.

Not that Cianen really expected anything the Jedi did to make perfect sense. Not the point.

Finally, she heard a shuffling from behind her, the soft hiss of fur against sheets. Her voice thick and low with sleep, Asyr muttered, " _Hjanethe?_  How long you been up reading?"

"Oh, a couple hours." Cianen was aware she had a rather horrid accent in Harishye, the standard dialect of government and media and education in Bothan space — the human throat simply wasn't up to distinguishing the fine differences in vowel quality reliably. But no matter how off she might sound, it was close enough to be understood, and that was all that really mattered. "I read quite a lot, you know. You could even say it's what I do."

Asyr let out a low grunt, the rumbling, growling sort of thing Cianen would just hurt herself trying to imitate. "Get back in here."

Smiling to herself, she spun the chair around. Asyr was still mostly invisible in the darkness, the curves of her body only vague shadows. One eye was open, catching the light from her datapad, glowing white with reflected radiance. "Don't you have to report in twenty minutes?"

She had to imagine Asyr's confused frown. There was a bit more shuffling, Asyr rolling away, reaching to turn the chrono around. And she jerked, springing to her feet an instant later, and started for the fresher. " _Ghysin ve shrallak anthe_ —" Cianen did understand that, of course, profanity simply wasn't always translatable. "—how long were you going to let me sleep?" Asyr clicked the light on, let out a sharp hiss at the assault on her eyes. Hers already adjusted by the datapad, Cianen took the opportunity to stare. Asyr hadn't gotten to dressing yet, and she wasn't bad to look at, after all. But she disappeared into the fresher soon enough.

"I wouldn't have let you sleep too late." Putting the datapad into standby, Cianen moved toward the fresher herself, peeked in. Right, Asyr was in the sonic already. She always thought species with fur looked so funny in there, countless hairs fluttering wildly with each wave pulse. Like a kitten in a windstorm. Not that she would ever say that out loud, Asyr certainly wasn't the type who would appreciate that sort of comment. "It's not like you really have to be there early. How much time does it take you to get ready in the morning, anyway?"

"You are an evil, evil woman."

Cianen just grinned. Reaching for her brush, sitting where she'd left it on the rim of the sink, she turned to the mirror and started—

Her smile instantly vanished. She lifted her chin up and to the right, stretching out her neck. She took a breath in and out through her teeth, and then another, fighting the sudden flare of annoyance rising in her throat.

There were risks involved in sexual encounters with people of different species from one's own — and she wasn't talking about the kind that required treatment for particular infections. No, quite simply each species had only evolved to couple with others of their own kind. Obviously. There were always incompatibilities, some minor, some insurmountable. Some species didn't really have sex at all, some did only to reproduce and didn't find it particularly pleasurable, sex for some species was so wildly  _different_  they and humans simply couldn't see eye to eye, so to speak. It wasn't unusual for people to be allergic to each other — Cianen herself was hypersensitive to even indirect contact with eleven different species that she knew of, the reaction severe enough sleeping with any of them simply wasn't thinkable.

Some people could get a bit more, ah, aggressive than humans were really built to handle. In some cases, humans would be seriously risking their lives, but it only rarely got that bad. For Bothans, and a litany of other species of similar physiology, the problem mostly involved claws and teeth. Cianen had known this going in, had come with a list of ground rules. She'd expected she'd get scratched up a bit. She hadn't examined herself too thoroughly, and it could be easy to lose track in the moment, but judging by what she could see in the mirror right now and the stinging where she couldn't, shoulders, all down her back, stomach, arse, and thighs.

Asyr was thorough, after all.

Cianen didn't particularly mind all that. As long as Asyr properly washed her hands first, it wasn't really a problem. To be perfectly honest, it was part of the reason she'd been open to Asyr in the first place. A few of them had gone a little deeper than she would like — she hadn't missed the blood on the sheets — and it could make sitting down or wearing anything at all a bit uncomfortable at times, but it wasn't that big of a deal. It'd all be healed in a week or two anyway. Worth it, in her mind.

This  _one_  line, though. This one was high enough it wasn't really her shoulder anymore. This one, a thread of torn skin white and inflamed pink, a few tiny beads of dried blood here and there, this one was on her neck. High enough it would probably be visible.

And she was annoyed. Not at Asyr, exactly — okay, well, maybe a little bit. But with herself, that she hadn't been paying attention, with everyone she just  _knew_  would stare or make some inane comment. This was going to be a pain, until it was properly healed and everyone could talk to her normally again. Without something else very clearly on their minds.  _And_  it would still be there when she got to Dantooine. Lovely first impression of her the Jedi there were going to get, wasn't it?

With another sigh, Cianen set to getting herself presentable, grumbling to herself in her head.

After barely a few seconds, Asyr was out, slipping behind her. She took slightly longer getting out of the fresher than entirely necessary, Cianen could see in the mirror her eyes were wandering. Cianen felt herself unconsciously straighten, but ignored it, kept sorting her hair. Her voice a hissing drawl that put a smirk on Cianen's face, Asyr said, "An evil woman." And she was gone, walking into the room proper.

Cianen set down her things and followed after her. Pointing at the scratch on her neck, "I'm an evil woman? You did this one on purpose."

"Yes." The flat, matter-of-fact delivery nearly made Cianen laugh. She wasn't even looking at her, more focused on slipping into her uniform. Cianen was distracted watching her for a second, then jumped for her own clothes — she couldn't even get out into the unsecured halls by herself, she'd need to follow Asyr. "That was punishment."

"Punishment? What for?"

"For teasing me in front of the others."

Cianen let out a huff. Okay, she'd known even at the time that had been over the line. But she'd been a little drunk, she hadn't been  _entirely_  aware of what she'd been saying. Asyr was the one who kept bringing her drinks, didn't seem like that was her fault now, did it? "Oh, like they'll even remember me two weeks from now."

"You might be surprised. I haven't made a reputation for being personable." Tying her boots, Asyr glanced up at her. The hairs of her long face had shifted, settled into something Cianen read as amused. "They don't know what this is, you see. You're an evil, evil woman. You just want me for my private quarters."

She rolled her eyes. Of course, Asyr wasn't  _entirely_  wrong — she wouldn't deny the idea of getting to share her private room had been a contributing factor. Cianen had been stuck with an insufferably energetic and simple-minded ensign, she'd spent maybe five minutes in Ulgo's presence before she'd been overwhelmed with the need to be far,  _far_  away. (What the hell was an Ulgo even  _doing_  here, anyway? Whatever, didn't matter.) Asyr, as a squadron commander, got her own room. It was a tiny, ascetic little thing, but still. But, well, if Cianen had just wanted to crash in someone's special single-person room, Asyr was hardly the only option.

So, slightly petulantly, she said, "That's not the  _only_  reason." She barely knew Asyr, they'd just met a couple days ago, but she rather liked her so far. She was just...refreshingly blunt. Many Bothans could get that way, almost obsessively matter-of-fact in all things, just part of the warrior culture bit, they weren't the only ones. (Actually, Asyr wasn't even the first Bothan she'd been with, but that was beside the point.) Asyr was just, she didn't know, she had a way of saying things she found amusing. Combined with being not at all hard on the eyes, and the usual almost pathological down-to-earth-ness of her people, well.

It wasn't like she'd  _needed_  to find someone on the ship. She was shagging Asyr because she amused her and she wanted to. It really was that simple.

But there was no real point saying all that. Asyr had probably guessed near enough anyway. "And hey, you only want me because I won't get all sappy."

Asyr smirked at that. The toothless kind of smirk, not a hint of white peeking through — in most cultures that had them, after all, showing teeth was considered a threat. Or flirtatious, she supposed, depending on the species and the context, but the human smile was actually very weird, xenosociologically speaking. "That is refreshing. Too many people make things more than what they are. Humans are particularly bad about that, most of the time."

Well, yes, she was well aware humans were a comparatively emotional people. Especially when it came to sexual relationships. There was a reason she tried to avoid her own species when it came to this sort of thing. "And everyone knows Bothans are particularly sweet and cuddly. Fact."

Asyr gave her a hard look, but didn't dignify that one with a response.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bothan culture —  _For the record, I have altered Bothan culture significantly. In my head, they will end up much as they are in the canon Rebellion / New Republic, after gradual evolution during the Great Peace of the Republic._
> 
> [What the hell was an Ulgo even doing here, anyway?] —  _For those who don't know, House Ulgo happens to be one of the Alderaanian noble families (like Organa)._


	3. Endar Spire — I

When it happened, Cianen was reclined on a sofa on an observation deck, pouring through samples of the Kwa written language the Jedi had handed over.

She wasn't entirely sure why modern ships, especially military vessels, still had these things. Once upon a time, a fair portion of navigation and such was done by sight, but it had been millennia since that had actually been necessary. Early sensors could be rather easily scrambled, they'd placed rooms with a view of space near the guns, marking and assigning targets manually, but that was virtually unheard of these days. What had once been a necessary, functional feature had become increasingly decorative, until they were reduced to rooms like these. A small space, yes, but holding nothing but couches and chairs, turned toward the shifting blue and white maelstrom of hyperspace.

It was pretty, of course, but Cianen wasn't sure why they bothered. Seemed like a frivolous use of resources, really.

As was her attempt at deciphering the Kwa script. It was obviously phonemic — in the few dozen brief texts the Jedi had recovered, she'd identified sixty-three different glyphs, which seemed like rather a lot for an alphabet, but far too few for a logographic system. (At least, she thought it was sixty-three, they did string together a bit.) But, well, that meant it was completely bloody hopeless. It was simply impossible to crack a phonemic script without any bilingual texts. Even if it were logographic, deciphering it would take decades of work and a  _lot_  of luck. (Not to mention a far larger corpus than she had to work with.) It was pretty to look at, anyway. The Kwa had taken angled, geometric shapes and somehow given them an almost organic flow, so subtle she couldn't quite pinpoint exactly what about the script gave her that impression. It was fascinating.

But it wasn't enough to distract her from the unanswered questions, floating distractingly around her head.

The Jedi claimed they wanted her to translate something they'd found on some ruins for them. Fine, but it wasn't quite that simple. They had their own experts. Even if they wanted to borrow someone from the University of Aldera, there were people more qualified and more conveniently located.

Why her?

The task they claimed they wanted her to accomplish, judging by the little they'd told her about it, was impossible. Quite simply, impossible. But the Jedi weren't idiots — they had their own experts, after all. They had to  _know_  it was impossible.

She was becoming increasingly convinced they were making the whole thing up. They wanted her for something else.

But what was it? Why her?

They were ferrying her to where they wanted her. All right, fine — that in itself wasn't unusual at all. An entire Republic battle group, though, was an absolutely absurd escort for one measly little university professor. It made absolutely no sense. Especially since it happened to be the one  _Bastila Shan_ , that self-important Jedi savior of the Republic, was attached to. Sending this much firepower to  _Dantooine_ , of all places? No, it didn't make  _no_  sense, it made  _inverse_  sense, it was pure blithering idiocy.

She didn't understand.

More, they had to know she wasn't an idiot herself. She did have a litany of references and an impressive  _curriculum vitae_  for her age, they  _had_  to know. They had to know she'd put it together quickly, that something else was going on. In the Jedi's eyes, the few times she'd ever been in a room with any of them, she could almost see it. They knew she wasn't fooled. But still they played along with the fiction she'd been told, and she played along with it too, despite everyone involved knowing it was a lie, and knowing everyone else knew it was a lie. And she just...

She didn't see what possible advantage there could be in any of this. The Republic and the Jedi both had far more important affairs to concern themselves with, she couldn't imagine what they thought they could gain through...

She  _didn't understand_.

Perhaps more than anything else, she  _hated_  not understanding things. It ate away at her. She'd been trying to avoid thinking about the puzzle as much as she could, the last couple days.

But she couldn't always help it. Alone in the observation deck, save for her datapad and the ineffable chaos of hyperspace, her insatiable mind found itself wandering.

So, perhaps it wasn't much of a surprise she hadn't been focusing very well at all on her "work". Perhaps it wasn't much of a surprise that, when the flickering blue and white miasma fell away, stars appearing as blurred streaks only to refine into hard points in the sharp blackness of deep space, Cianen noticed immediately that they'd decanted from hyperspace hours before they should be making their next course change. When the intercom came on, Cianen caught the whole thing, from the very first word.

And, as she darted off toward where she knew she could get to the balcony over the briefing room at the center of the ship, she wasn't the least bit surprised the whole thing appeared to be going off the rails.

After all, even if she hadn't been able to begin to guess what, she'd always been expecting  _something_  would happen.

* * *

"No. This is a terrible idea."

Every sense of serenity, of tolerant superiority, of general Jedi self-righteousness, disappeared in an instant, leaving Shan's face hard and cold. "Forgive me, Professor, but I was not aware you were an expert in military tactics."

Cianen bit her lip, by some miracle managing to hold back the insult on her tongue.

The briefing room had cleared out already, everyone run off to carry out their role in this folly, leaving only Cianen and a few Jedi. They had gathered in the center of the room, risers crawling upward in a semicircle around them, the projection of Shan's battle plan suspended over their heads. The other two Jedi, whose names Cianen had semi-intentionally forgotten, were mostly keeping the stereotypical detached Jedi calm, but Shan was glaring at her, the lights of the hologram painting sharp shadows across her face.

Before the sight of the little idiot made Cianen say something she might regret later, she glanced back up at the projection. But that didn't make her  _less_  annoyed. The hologram depicted Taris — poor, unfortunate Taris, punted back and forth during the Mandalorian wars and now this nonsense, the place couldn't catch a break. In perilously low orbit over the planet was a split-hulled, curved ship Cianen recognized as an interdictor. The  _Leviathan_ , Malak's flagship, trailed by two triangular monstrosities, she didn't remember what those were called. They were big ships, anyway. In flashing blue and green above them, trapping them against the planet, was a whole web of ships — the battlegroup Cianen was hitching a ride with, along with a few other ships they were picking up from somewhere.

See, the Republic had stumbled on intelligence, Shan hadn't said where they'd gotten it from, that Malak would be visiting Taris. Something to do with chastising the local governor, not important. Malak always liked to make a dramatic production of this sort of thing — he particularly liked parking in an impractically low orbit, just to make himself all big and intimidating in the sky. This put him far into the planet's gravity well, he wouldn't be able to break to hyperspace with any kind of speed.

Shan wanted to use that to take him out. She was going to take as many ships as she could as quickly as she could, wait out of system for Malak to show up, then appear in the sky above him once he's stuck in low orbit. Malak would be unable to escape, unable to even properly maneuver to counter her. They'd pound them into pieces, Malak would be dead, and the war would be over.

But there was...well, there were numerous problems with that idea. Just during the briefing, Cianen,  _the civilian without any military experience at all_ , had come up with a few. How about the fact that the plan depended on utmost secrecy? That meant they were going deep into Sith territory with absolutely no backup. If anything unexpected happened, they were fucked.

She had more. In order to get there in time to hit Malak, they had to go  _very_  soon. That meant they couldn't wait to gather an overwhelming force. They'd be going with what they had, maybe a few ships Shan could pick up on the way. Cianen wasn't convinced that was enough. Malak's escort might only be two ships, but they were  _big_  ships, and his flagship wasn't anything to sneeze at either. Shan's battlegroup had a larger  _number_  of ships, but they had none even approaching that size, and Cianen didn't know if they had any firepower advantage at all. If they'd gotten the size of Malak's escort wrong, if Malak's people even got a few lucky shots, they were fucked.

And not done yet, either. To get into range to hit Malak in low orbit, they'd have to descend a bit into Taris's gravity well themselves. What was the problem with that? Oh, she wasn't an  _expert in military tactics_ , but couldn't Malak just do the  _same thing back at them_? He could have  _hundreds_  of ships floating in the vast blackness between stars. It had to be possible, Shan's plan depended on the Republic fleet doing  _that exact thing_. Which wouldn't be too much of a risk if Taris were a border planet, but it  _wasn't_ , it was firmly in Sith territory. Shan thought she was springing the trap, but Cianen couldn't suppress the thought they were walking into one.

Finally, she thought this was important to mention,  _she had never signed on for this!_  She wasn't a soldier, she was a fucking  _linguist!_  They were supposed to be bringing her to Dantooine, not dragging her into full-blown space battles!

She took a slow breath in, tried to force her own impatience out on the exhale. "Have you considered the possibility, Master Jedi, that this is a trap?"

The arrogant young woman shrugged, flicking one hand dismissively in the air. "It doesn't matter."

"It does—" Cianen choked on her own throat for a second. "It  _doesn't matter?!"_

"Yes, Professor Hayal. It does not matter. It could be a trap, yes. I do not think it likely," the Jedi said, with a sense of no small amount of condescension yet absolutely none of irony, "but I will not deny it is possible. But it  _does not matter_. Even if it is a trap, we haven't had an opportunity like this in some time. If there is a chance that we can neutralize Darth Malak, no matter how flawed, we  _must_  take it."

For a few seconds, Cianen could only stare at the Jedi, Bastila bloody Shan, in numb disbelief. That was one of the stupidest things she'd ever heard an adult person say.

And she'd been roped into teaching the freshman seminar a few times. She'd heard some impressively stupid shit.

She  _could_  point out that Malak likely knew just how desperate the Republic was to eliminate him, making it only  _more_  likely it was a trap. She  _could_  point out the assumption they were making that killing Malak would end the war was flawed — people had said the same thing when they'd assassinated Revan, and how had that turned out? Yeah, that's what she'd thought.

They'd lost Revan, and they'd kept fighting.  _Revan_. Sure, she had been one of the greatest military strategists the Republic had ever seen, enough to beat the Mandalorians at their own game, but it hadn't been just that that had allowed one Jedi to split the Republic near in half. She hadn't coerced so much of the Republic military into following her, the vast majority of worlds in Sith space had never been conquered. People had followed Revan because they wanted to. For all the Jedi might lecture about the corruption of the Dark Side, how terrible and evil Revan had become, by all accounts she'd been a sympathetic and charismatic leader to the many peoples disaffected with the Republic, the Empire under her rule, so far as such authoritarian governments went, really quite fair and reasonable toward its people. They'd  _loved_  Revan. Malak was a petulant child playing at tyrant after her, there was no comparison. They  _would_  keep fighting without him.

If anything, knocking off Malak might be  _good_  for the Empire. Revan had been, again, charismatic and reasonable. Malak was anything but. He didn't have the restraint Revan had shown, indiscriminately destroying anything and anyone that showed the barest sign of resistance, slaughtering people by the millions. The Empire might be winning militarily, but they'd lost every inch of moral high ground they'd claimed to have; the people had loved Revan, but Malak was almost universally despised. Whoever seized the reins of the Empire after his death, Cianen doubted they would be nearly as corrupt and bloodthirsty as Malak. She wouldn't be surprised if, after the dust settled, the Empire ended up  _more_  stable than it'd been before.

Assuming it didn't tear itself apart, anyway. Unlike Revan, Malak had no clear successor. Sith space descending into civil war was definitely possible. Which, far from resolving it, would only  _increase_  the violence scourging the galaxy.

Stellar planning right there, Master Jedi. Just brilliant.

But there was no point arguing about it any further. Shan clearly had no intention of listening to her, and the rest of the Jedi seemed equally unconcerned. Arrogant fools, they were going to get them all killed. But that was Jedi for you, she guessed, they were in the business of getting other people killed.

"Fine, then," she grumbled, resisting the urge to curse and throw her hands in the air. "Could you at least drop me off somewhere first?"

"I'm afraid that won't be possible."

Cianen took in and out  _another_  long breath, the taste of it hot and bloody. "Why not? In case you've forgotten, war isn't exactly my specialty."

All four Jedi shifted a little, a brace of odd looks flicking across their faces too quickly for her to make out. One of them, a tall Iphigini with beads of ceramic and shining metals braided into the long hairs drooping from her face, took a step forward, a bony hand coming softly to rest on her arm. Cianen barely managed to stop herself from shrugging it off. "I am sorry, Professor," she sang. "I know you didn't agree to this, but we cannot leave you behind. The task force is running black — no transmissions in or out, nobody coming or leaving. We are even to avoid decanting within range of any planetary sensors. We cannot go into any system, not for even a second. If Malak finds out we changed our plans, he might grow suspicious. There is no quicker way to guarantee our assault at Taris will be a failure."

She opened her mouth to argue, then cut off, biting her lip. They were determined. Pointing out that the Empire's plants would already have reason to be suspicious when they didn't turn up at their next port wouldn't bend them. "Just don't take me into the battle, then. Leave me in a shuttle or escape pod or something outsystem."

"And if the battle goes badly, and we must flee? We may not have the opportunity to return to pick you up again."

Cianen grit her teeth, rubbed at her forehead with a hand, hard enough her vision blurred. There was nothing she could do. The Jedi wouldn't listen, the officers would yield to them, Cianen wasn't a good enough of a slicer to escape or even get a message out. She was screwed. "You know, if you get me killed my parents will hit the Republic with one hell of a wrongful death suit."

Again, the Jedi gave her a set of peculiar looks. Her voice hard, Shan said, "Martial law was declared shortly after Revan betrayed the Republic. The military is exempt from any liability for the duration."

She scoffed. Theoretically, sure, but rules like that could be bent — especially since the Chancellor just declaring he has broad executive powers like he did is flagrantly unconstitutional, making the  _emergency measures themselves_  illegal. She and her parents might be having problems, had for most of her life, but that didn't change anything, they would and  _could_ —

The thought broke off before she could finish it, and she was left frowning at herself. They could do nothing. They might  _want_  to, sure, but they were just common farmers. They hadn't the influence to make themselves heard. The suit would be dismissed out of hand, and that would be that.

Cianen shook her head to herself, though the odd feeling lingered, unease tingling at the back of her neck. "Well, I, ah... It's obvious I'm not going to be able to convince you how completely idiotic this whole thing is, so...that's that, then."

The Jedi didn't seem to have anything to say to that — though, by the narrow, angry set of her eyes, Shan at least certainly wanted to — and Cianen didn't wait to see if they'd come up with anything. She turned on her heel and walked off in the general direction of the pilots' lounge, where she could get herself a bloody drink.

The Jedi's eyes on her back only made that uncomfortable tingling worse.

* * *

_He turned her lightsaber aside with a flourish, stepping forward to drive his shoulder into her chest. She hit the ground hard, her breath leaving with a harsh cough, the dull white of her weapon going out as the hilt spun from her hand. But the fight wasn't done, she didn't stop until she was stopped, Alek turned back around, thrust out for her heart._

_Her dark eyes flashing, Lesami brought both hands halfway up, pulling at the Force so hard his face tingled, slapped them down to the ground at her sides. There was a hiss from the pool directly behind her, the rest all around, and the air was suddenly filled with fog, cool grey blankness pressing so thick against his face he couldn't see a damn thing. He stumbled, scrambled back, reached out, not to wipe the fog away, there wouldn't be time for that, he had to find her before she—_

_She suddenly appeared out of the fog, grabbing at his wrist, tore the hilt from his grip before he could react. He tried to step away, but she was on him in an instant, knee aiming to strike between his legs. Twisting out of the way, he stepped around her back, an arm coming around her neck. She tried to slip away, but he tightened his grip, locking his hand behind his opposite elbow. Both of her hands had gotten under his arm somehow, stopping him from putting too much pressure on her throat, but she couldn't escape, no matter how much she tried to kick at his legs, no matter how much she squirmed against him._

_Which was really quite distracting. He'd been...noticing Lesami a bit more than he should, lately. But he forced himself to stay focused as best he could._

_By the time Lesami gave up, slumping in his arms, both of them were breathing heavily, sweat tickling its way down his back. Her voice thin and breathless, Lesami said, "Do you yield?"_

_He laughed, the sound high and weak. "Me? What fight are you in?"_

_From so close his ear twinged, there was a very familiar snap-hiss to his right. He glanced that way to find the faded white glow of a lightsaber on the practice setting, floating in the air inches from his face. "This one." He could hear the smirk on her voice, as clear as though he were looking at it._

_Keeping his arm firm, Alek looked around them, trying to find his lightsaber. Dammit, where the hell had it gone? He took a slow breath, reached through himself and out, grasping for the hilt Lesami was levitating somewhere over his head. He found it after a moment, tried to wrench it away, but no matter how hard he shoved at the damn thing, it stayed perfectly still, the blade unwavering, humming hard in his ear._

_He sighed. "Fine, you win."_

_The grin she gave him as soon as she was free wasn't helping that...not noticing her thing._

_A moment later, they were laid out on a rock in the middle of one of the pools, the air thick with the scent of green and the sound of falls striking the water surface. The thin mist was comfortably cool against his flushed skin, the gentle glow against the leaves over their heads, the glass ceiling further above dim enough he could fall asleep if not for the light burns the practice setting left, his off arm and ankle throbbing. Not that he could complain about that, really, he was sure Lesami had it worse — for all that he couldn't hope to compete with her in the Force, he was still better with a lightsaber._

_Though his advantage even there was slowly shrinking. Lesami just learned too damn fast._

_They laid there for a few minutes in silence, but eventually Lesami spoke, slightly thick with pain. "I think I'm going to the clinic in a few minutes. I managed to win twice at least, but damn, Alek, that thing hurts, you know."_

" _Once."_

" _Twice."_

" _Once. That last one doesn't count. You cheated."_

_Lesami snorted. "If it were a real fight, you'd be too dead to call me a cheater."_

_There was really nothing to say to that — he had no doubt Lesami would wipe the floor with him if she weren't at least trying to keep to a proper lightsaber duel. She could probably turn him into bloody paste with the wave of a hand. Seriously, she was unfairly good at Force stuff, he'd been sent to the Temple_ years  _before her and he couldn't keep up. "How did you even do that thing with the fog?"_

" _It's a tutaminis trick. Well, not really tutaminis, but it's a similar idea. Sort of doing it backwards, if that makes sense."_

" _No, that makes no sense at all."_

" _I don't know. Improve your tutaminis a bit and I might be able to teach you."_

_Alek just smiled. Lesami was hardly a Jedi Master, but she tended to skip the more esoteric theory and philosophy too many of their teachers lingered on and get right to the point. If she was offering, he'd take it._

_A few minutes later, they were wandering through the Room of a Thousand Fountains, around columns and lumps of granite and pools and streams, under leaves and needles and falls, heading for the exit toward the center of the ziggurat. They were maybe twenty meters from the door out when a voice calling Lesami's name broke over the sounds of crashing water and rustling leaves. A Devaronian Master, Alek was blanking on his name, was walking toward them, clawed fingers fidgeting. "I've been looking for you, Apprentice."_

_Lesami glanced at Alek before turning back to the Master with a shrug. "I'm sorry, Master Tarkase, but I thought we had the rest of the day free."_

" _Oh, you didn't miss anything. You are needed for a meeting with someone from outside the Temple, is all." There were a couple slight hesitations in the second sentence, Tarkase, which was apparently his name, nearly stumbling over his words._

" _Oh, um, if you say so," she said, confused. Really, what would someone from outside the Temple be wanting to talk to an apprentice about? "I'll just drop by the clinic quick, if that's okay."_

_Tarkase sighed, eyes tipping upward for an instant. "Unfortunately, there's no time for that."_

" _Master, Alek and I were sparring for an hour, at least. I've got burns everywhere." She held up a hand, pointing at the blotch of reddened skin on her arm. "Can't they wait a half hour for me to get treated and cleaned up quick?"_

_The Master hesitated for a moment, fingers twitching some more. Which was just damn weird, Alek couldn't remember the last time he'd seen an adult Jedi look so uncomfortable. "Lady kun si Revas is quite impatient. I'm afraid any further delay will only complicate the situation further."_

_From this angle Alek couldn't see her face, but he did notice Lesami's shoulders stiffen, her hands tighten into fists at her sides. Her voice hard, meticulously controlled, she said, "What is my mother doing here?"_

_Alek frowned. Her mother? The Order made every effort to isolate initiates from the lives they'd had before being brought to the Temple, their families especially. It was a new policy, instituted after the war, and yet extremely controversial, but they stuck to it firmly enough he'd never heard of a parent being allowed to visit the Temple._

_Tarkase looked even more uncomfortable then he'd been a second ago, fingers fidgeting all the harder as he drew a sharp breath between jagged teeth. "House Reva has been...difficult, lately. They've been demanding they be allowed to visit occasionally, even for you to stay with them on Shawken for a month out of the year. If their demands aren't met, they've threatened to take the Order to court over custody."_

" _What? Why haven't I heard of this until now?"_

" _The Council hoped it wouldn't go this far. House Reva refuses to be placated."_

_Lesami let out a long, harsh sigh. "Of course they do. Take me to her, then."_

_His face falling into a subtle frown, Tarkase said, "Mind yourself, Apprentice. Remember, there is no emoti—"_

"— _there is peace, I know. Let's go."_

_Tarkase held a stern, disapproving look on her for a moment, but finally turned, starting off for the same door they'd been making for earlier. Alek watched the two of them walk away, Lesami's footsteps awkward and jerking, then jumped at the sudden pull at his wrist. Lesami glanced at him over her shoulder, just for a second, then turned away again, following at Tarkase's heel._

_Okay. Apparently Alek was to come with. All right, then._

_Even after living here for, oh, over six years now, it still got to him sometimes just how huge the Temple Complex was. Even just the Ziggurat above "ground" level, which was actually over a kilometer above the natural surface, was enormous by itself. With a base of a square kilometer, a height about four-thirds that, the place was an endless maze of huge corridors and tiny hallways, gardens and libraries, rooms for classes and larger ones for more physical training, apartments and common rooms by the dozens (though not enough for the whole Order, most of those were beneath the "surface"), and more and more and more. He'd gotten lost more times than he could count. It didn't help that the floors were skewed — chambers toward the middle had higher ceilings. One particularly odd case he knew of involved rooms directly across a corridor from each other that were labeled G-17046 and E-35947. One side of the corridor was on the seventeenth floor, and the other side the thirty-fifth. It was insane._

_The walk the Jedi Master led them on took some minutes, down a dozen floors, down this corridor, then that one, stitching back and forth seemingly at random. Alek had the feeling they were getting pretty close to "ground" level, not far from the Entrance Hall...maybe. It could be really hard to tell._

_Eventually, they were led between two huge double doors, the ancient wood carved with the visages of Jedi long dead dwarfing all three of them. Inside was a high-ceilinged room of granite, silver, and polished reddish wood, all of it set to a soft glow by sunlight slanting through tall windows to the west. Waiting on the thickly cushioned chairs and couches arrayed throughout the room were a slew of people. Some of them were Jedi, Masters all — Alek was a little surprised to see Grandmaster Sunrider, red hair lined with a little more grey than he remembered. Some were Republic officials, a human woman Alek recognized as the Senator from Shawken, along with a couple people from the Diplomatic Corps. Then there were several people Alek didn't recognize at all, most of them wearing fine clothes of shimmersilk and jewelry in gold and blue. He could only assume these were all related to Lesami._

_Which was a bit of a surprise, really. Despite being sent to the Jedi rather late, when she'd been nine, Lesami had never mentioned her family at all. Honestly, Alek had been relieved — that topic would be a little awkward for him, considering his last memory of his family involved them all being murdered. Yeah, he'd rather not go there. But the people who came to the Temple later usually, well, missed their family, they all tended to talk about them, at least a little. He was starting to think maybe he should have asked her about that before._

_Whatever he might have expected her family to be like, he certainly hadn't expected people so...important-looking, with pull enough to force Jedi and Republic to let them in the Temple to see her, with the Grandmaster and their Senator right there with them. It was... Well, it was just a little weird, was all._

_Without stalling a beat, Lesami marched right toward the middle of the group, where the Grandmaster, the Senator, and her mother were waiting, moving quickly enough Alek had to scramble after her. He caught up in time to watch her stiff bows, hear the formal greetings passing her lips. The Grandmaster first, then the Senator,_ then  _her mother. Alek failed to hold back a wince when she called her mother, "my lady," her shoulders tense, her voice brittle. The woman — long-faced and black-haired, wearing an overly-elaborate dress in green and blue stitched with gold — flinched as though struck._

_Yeah, there was no way this was ending well._

_Apparently he wasn't the only one to notice. Before anyone else could figure out what to say, Lesami's mother just staring at her with her mouth half-open, Grandmaster Sunrider cleared her throat, every eye in the room flicking to her. "I think we should let the Lady kun si Revas and Apprentice Lesami have some privacy, hmm?"_

" _That's not necessary, Master."_

" _Oh, I think it is." The Grandmaster gave Lesami an odd, weak smile. She took a step closer, a hand coming to gently rest on Lesami's shoulder. "Some things aren't meant to be aired out in public." Her hand moved again, a knuckle tipping Lesami's chin up an inch, meeting her eyes. Alek felt something pass through them, something in the Force he couldn't read from the outside. A pained expression flickered across the Grandmaster's face, just for a moment, before it was wiped away with an empty smile. She straightened again, nodded to Lesami's mother, then led the rest of the intimidating group out into the hall. A few of the fancy-looking people Alek had pegged as more of Lesami's relatives hesitated for a moment before following along, leaving Lesami and her mother alone in the oversized room._

_Well, them and Alek. He'd started turning to follow the Grandmaster out with them, but he'd been stopped by another tug at his wrist. Apparently he was staying for this too._

_For long seconds, Lesami and her mother just stared at each other. As the silence stretched on and on, Alek shuffled his feet a little, avoiding looking at her mother's face. This was just...unspeakably awkward. It was something on the air, something hot and tense and...and wounded, it was unbearable._

_The woman broke first. A hesitant but still warm smile pulling at her lips, she said, "You look well, Sami."_

_Lesami hardly reacted at all. She didn't move a muscle, still standing there so stiffly and brittley as though made of glass. Alek couldn't see her face from here, but he did catch a whiff through the Force, the air about her cold and hard and unbending._

_Her smile faltered, twitching back and forth before vanishing completely. She shot a couple uncomfortable glances at Alek, before seemingly deciding to pretend he wasn't there. It took two attempts for her to find her voice again, her mouth opening once only to close again. "You haven't been taking any of our calls or answering our letters."_

_Alek blinked — he'd had no idea Lesami's family had been trying to contact her, she'd never mentioned it. But she must have known about it, the tension ratcheted up another notch, her shoulders ticking up an inch. "No, I haven't."_

" _We've been worried, Sami."_

" _Is that so."_

_The woman flinched again. She started to reach for Lesami, then seemed to think better of it, her hands falling awkwardly to her sides. "We feared... Well, the life of a Jedi can be...unsafe."_

_Alek almost had to laugh. Over just the last couple decades, near on a third of the Order had either died or gone missing. "Unsafe" was one way to put it._

_Her arms coming up to cross over her chest, Lesami let out a harsh scoff. "Maybe you should have thought of that before sending me here."_

" _Sami, we had no—"_

" _You_ did  _have a choice!" Lesami's voice had gone low, a hiss that seemed to linger longer than it should. The air around her shimmered, the stone against Alek's feet throbbing,_ lub-dub lub-dub _, the familiar, sickening taste of blood and ash on his tongue. Lesami slumped slightly, then took a long, slow breath, in then out. In an instant, the throbbing ended, the chill vanished, the taint of Darkness on the air gone._

_It was so quick Alek could almost convince himself Lesami hadn't just nearly gotten_ too  _angry._

" _Was there something you wanted of me, my lady?"_

_Of course, Lesami's mother, Force-blind as she was, had no idea just how thin of a line she was walking right now. She was saying something about her family missing her and such, but Alek was paying rather more attention to what she was_ doing _. She was taking another step forward, her hands coming up again, going around—_

_Lesami took a sharp step backward, her mother's fingers coming to an abrupt stop a short distance away, as though striking an invisible wall. "I can't. I'm a Jedi now. My place is here."_

" _Your place is with your family!"_

" _Not anymore. You and your husband saw to that." The woman flinched again, and Alek saw the beginning of tears spark in her eyes. "Excuse me, my lady, but I have nothing more to say to you. I wish you a safe journey home." And Lesami spun on her heel, strode off toward the door without another word._

_Alek jumped, muttered an awkward goodbye to her shaken mother before scrambling after her. By the time he made it out to the corridor, the Masters and the Republic officials and the Shawkenese were already descending into a loud argument, and he had to squeeze through the throng, forcing himself the same direction he knew without thinking Lesami had gone. When he was finally out in the open, it was just in time to see the hem of Lesami's overrobe whip around a corner. He broke into a run after her, around one corner, then another, far enough into the Temple the halls grew narrower, emptier, until his footsteps echoed around him in the stillness._

_He abruptly froze in mid-step, sudden enough he nearly toppled over. He followed the twinge in his senses back to the door he'd just passed. Inside was a classroom, by the screens in the desks and the rounded holoprojector at the front one focused on astrogation, by the thin layer of dust on everything one currently not in use. And there was Lesami, standing in front of one of the tall flat-screens many of the internal rooms had in place of windows. At the moment, it was displaying a feed from one of the cameras on the outside of the Temple, but Lesami was flipping through the menu, searching for something else._

_Even as he came up behind her, each step slow and uncertain, the endless cityscape of Coruscant was replaced with a beach. The sands were a brilliant gold in the alien sunlight, bits of quartz sparkling white and pink, the water a healthy blue-green, stretching off into the distance. The water was dotted with boats of all size and shapes, the beach thick with people, mostly humans, swimming and playing and sunbathing. At a second's glance he noticed many of them were going about completely nude, and he glanced away, cursing the warmth on his cheeks. It still took him aback sometimes, how...immodest certain peoples in the core could be._

_Lesami closed the menu out, sank to sitting on the floor just in front of the flatscreen. And she stared up at the artificial view of some beach on another world, still and silent, her face almost eerily expressionless. Alek hesitated a moment, glancing at the door behind them, before sitting next to her. He hugged his knees to his chest, mostly just so he had something to do with his hands._

_The silence stretched on for several, awkward moments. He had absolutely no idea what to say._

_But he should at least try. This whole thing with her family and all was just...uncomfortable. Understatement, that. He didn't want to jump straight in, though, might as well ask. "Where is this?"_

" _Mathilnai, on Shawken." The harshness, the brittleness had gone out of her voice, leaving her sounding tired. "It's part of the protected lands in the east, it's not built up like the rest of the planet. There's a little town, just south of here, we used to stay there for a couple weeks every summer."_

" _Ah." And he had absolutely no idea what to say again already. Just, dammit. "Did you, uh, want to talk about it?"_

" _There's nothing to talk about. They gave me up. They'll have to learn to accept what that means, sooner or later. It's not my problem they're having difficulties with that."_

_That wasn't at all what Alek meant. He groped for words for a moment, then winced even as they left his mouth. This wasn't the right thing to say, he knew it. "You know, they really had no choice."_

" _They_ had a choice _." Lesami turned to glare at him, but he didn't buy it for a second. He was sitting too close to miss the slight wetness to her eyes. "Other people might not, but_ they did _. I'm po si Revas, Alek, if my family wanted to they could—" Lesami broke off with a sigh, her eyes falling closed. "They_ chose  _to give me away, and I refuse to forget it."_

_Alek knew what he should say. He should say something about the anger she was feeling. She was trying to hide it, he could tell, but her control wasn't quite that good, it leaked out into the Force, she might as well be screaming it for everyone to hear. He should say something about that, should say that holding onto this anger toward her birth family, holding onto this pain of betrayal, that it wasn't the Jedi way. That she had to let it go, she had to forgive them. If she didn't, she was risking..._

_Well, there_ wasn't  _a choice really, when it came down to it._

_But he couldn't. Not when it was so, so raw, so... He knew she would hate it, if he tried to give her the party line, that she would be angry at him. He'd prefer Lesami not be angry at him. He preferred it rather a lot._

_And he did understand. He remembered the Mandalorians coming to his village. The noise of blasterfire, the screaming, the fire and the blood. People dying, people he'd known all his life, all of his family, his dad cut down in front of him, his mom screaming, his brothers and sisters and cousins falling one by one as they fled. He still had nightmares about it, sometimes. The Mandalorians had taken his family from him, and he would never forget it, he couldn't._

_It wasn't quite the same thing. Lesami's family was still alive, but they'd been taken from her all the same. Only, they hadn't been taken from her by force. No, it was_ her family themselves  _who had done it to her, had cut her away from all she'd known. It wasn't quite the same thing, but it was close enough._

_In a way, Alek thought it might be even worse. The Mandalorians had been nothing to him, his family hadn't a choice in the matter. And he had been young, four or five, it was hard to even remember them sometimes. Lesami had been older. And it hadn't been by force, her family had_ chosen  _to betray her._

_He should say all those Jedi things about letting go of the Darkness inside herself, but he couldn't. He just couldn't._

_Instead he slid a little closer and — slowly, hesitantly — draped an arm around her shoulders, down her side. Lesami let out a thin sigh, leaned into him, tucked herself in under his arm. "If you ever do want to talk about it, or, anything else, I'll be here."_

" _I know."_

_They sat in silence, Lesami watching the feed from her homeworld, Alek...well, trying not to get distracted. Lesami could be distracting sometimes lately. He did manage to not think about wherever his hand happened to be at the moment, he wasn't thinking about it, but her head being against his shoulder made it impossible to not notice the smell of her hair. He meant, it was_ right there _, that really wasn't his fault._

_In a low whisper, Lesami said, "I know what you're thinking, by the way."_

_Alek jumped, went straight to cursing himself in his head._ Of course  _she did, she was far better at this Force stuff than he was, he wasn't sure he'd even notice her in his head. Well, maybe he_ hadn't  _noticed her in his head, but things could leak out sometimes, she probably didn't need to actively look. She sounded more amused than anything, though, so Alek shook off his embarrassment, glared down at the top of her head. "Well, yeah. You are a cheater."_

" _Mm-hmm." He couldn't see from this angle, but he still knew she was smiling. "If, a couple years from now, you still want to talk about that, I'll be here."_

_Oh, uh, right, okay. Perfectly reasonable. They were young, after all, he fifteen and she thirteen. Waiting a couple years to even talk about it was perfectly reasonable._

_At least, it_ would  _be perfectly reasonable if they weren't Jedi. That...complicated matters. They should probably...well, not._

_All the same, he breathed in through her hair again, this time not even bothering to try to hide that he was smelling her._

_He couldn't see from this angle, but he still knew she was smirking._

* * *

Cianen looked out over the nearly empty briefing room from the balcony, her hands so tight on the guardrail her knuckles had gone white.

The projection of their little fleet arrayed in space had gone out when they'd entered hyperspace, reverting to...she didn't know the proper name, diagrams of each ship with what looked like real-time status updates, whatever. Seeing it all made Cianen feel even more nervous than she'd been a second ago, biting her lip and tapping a foot against the floor. They were too few, somehow she knew they were too few.

She had a bad feeling, a very bad feeling. This whole thing was going to go all wrong.

The wait was interminable, despite the brevity of the jump they were making, Cianen almost agonizingly tense, the rumble of the hyperdrive deafening. The stillness of her Jedi minder next to her, the handful of crew members poking around down by the projector, was only making her feel worse, the eye of a storm inverted, rational panic surrounded by delusional calm. She'd mostly worked out her frustration arguing in the pilot's lounge and with Asyr, but she still had to bite her lip to keep herself from cursing.

If there was one thing she had trouble tolerating, it was idiocy. That this particular episode happened to be threatening her life wasn't making it any easier.

After what felt like hours, but could be only minutes, the smooth groaning of the hyperdrive ceased, the sublights kicking in an instant later with a thunk and a roar. Red lights along the ceiling came on, but alarms didn't blare — everyone had known they were going straight into combat, there was no reason to announce it. The projection blanked out, over the next seconds a hologram depicting the skies over Taris replaced it. Details were sparse, just an indistinct convex curve to represent the planet, the Sith fleet one pincer shape and two blocky prisms, all in red, the Republic fleet much the same, simple shapes more numerous but smaller, cast in greens and blues.

The coms burst into life, the chatter thin and tinny from up here, a dozen voices all at once scrambling enough Cianen only picked out a few words here or there. The green and blue shapes were moving, descending on the red ones, a net falling to trap them against the planet's atmosphere. Even as they moved, they disgorged a cloud of tiny colored specks, starfighters by the dozens. A few lingered with the larger shapes, but the majority darted out toward the Sith, squadrons mixed into a mass of light so thick it was almost a solid line, narrowing the distance so fast, too fast.

It was impossible to tell which, but she knew one of those tiny little dots was Asyr. She was trying to not think about that.

Watching the display, she felt her shoulders hunch, an odd tingling at the small of her back. Something wasn't... The vanguard of the Republic capital ships were just sinking into range, the first lines of simulated turbolaser fire already lancing out, pale white curves symbolizing energy shields fading into life around the larger Sith ships. But they didn't fire back. They didn't even fire at the cloud of approaching fighters, less than a kilometer out their windows now. They weren't shooting back. They just floated there, waiting.

Cianen realized what was happening seconds before the trap was sprung.

In an inexorable wave, a flood of tiny red dots washed out from behind the Sith cruisers. Even as they appeared, the capital ships fired into the densest parts of the swarm of Republic fighters, tight lines cutting through the ranks, blue and green dots vanishing by the handful. An instant later, the red dots fell upon them, coming from ahead, above and below and left and right. The first volley blotted out even more of the Republic ships, only a few Sith fighters taken by return fire, before the formations slipped into each other, the writhing mass of quick-moving dots too confused to make out what was going on.

A few seconds later, a grey haze appeared on the opposite side of the Republic fleet. The haze quickly resolved into ships, just decanted from hyperspace, a huge fleet, dozens of them. A fleet burning enemy red, positioned in a thin hemisphere around the Republic ships, pinning them against the planet.

And they came out firing.

Hundreds of thin lines of turbolaser fire, dozens of sparks of rockets, cut into the Republic fleet, each ship taking fire from somewhere, some from multiple sides. The floor jerked under Cianen's feet as the  _Spire_  took fire from two directions at once, an elbow slamming painfully against the guardrail. The lights overhead flickered just a little, the ship's systems redirecting power toward the shields, but the hologram remained firm.

So Cianen could see the first few green and blue lights already going out.

She turned to the Jedi next to her, screaming over the chaos on the coms, raised voices all around, the groaning and clattering of the ship around them. "See what I mean?!  _Trap!"_

The Jedi didn't say anything to that, just looked at her, her eyes heavy and tired. The floor bucked again, nearly taking Cianen to her knees, but the Jedi didn't even flinch, standing steady as steel. "I have to go to Bastila."

Before she could go on a rant about these idiots dragging her into a battle she'd  _told_  them was a  _terrible_  idea, and this bitch just calmly standing there like nothing was happening, like people weren't dying by the hundreds because they  _wouldn't listen_ , they were interrupted with a shout of Cianen's name. Just as the man ran into the room the ship shuddered again, sending him pitching to the ground right at Cianen's feet, cursing and clutching his shoulder.

It took Cianen only a second to recognize him. "Ulgo? Now's a bad time, don't you think?"

Ulgo managed to get to his feet, still shaky, teetering a bit side to side. Not that Cianen could blame him — the shuddering of the floor was constant now, in time with a rattling somewhere deep in the ship that did  _not_  sound good. "I've been ordered to get you off the ship before they start boarding." He stumbled forward, wrapping an arm around hers and pulling her away from the guardrail.

Letting herself be dragged, feet spread wide against the heaving floor, Cianen almost wanted to scoff. Giving up on the battle already, were they? But a glance over her shoulder silenced her — half of the fleet was gone already, the remaining Republic ships lost in a sea of red. Fuck, that hadn't taken very long.

She also noticed the Jedi had disappeared, because of course she had.

Anyway, yes, escaping. Pay attention, Hayal, spending too much time critiquing these idiots' decision making will only get you killed. Staggering out into the hallway, the sharp right angles of the internal halls were shaking so badly they almost seemed curved. Over the rattling of the ship, the shouting of crewmen coming from somewhere down the hall, Cianen yelled, "Boarding? Won't they just blow us up?"

She felt Ulgo's head shake more than she saw it — she was busy watching each placement of her feet. "They'll want Jedi Shan alive."

Oh. Well, yes, of course they would. That should give them some time to get to the escape pods at least.

For a moment, Cianen almost wished Shan would be captured. The bloody infuriating idiot had dragged Cianen here, despite her protests, and by the look of it just might get her killed. It would suit her right. But no, no it wouldn't. Cianen had heard horror stories of how the Sith under Malak treated their prisoners. No one deserved that.

Even if she was a self-righteous little cunt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tutaminis —  _The proper in-universe name of the ability called "Force absorb" in a few video games. Essentially, absorbing energy of all kinds and converting it into something else. What Lesami did (applying enough energy to the nearby water to evaporate a bit off the surface) would be in the same class of energy-manipulating abilities, but I don't know if there's actually a separate name for it. Tutaminis will be showing up a lot in my fics, it's very exploitable._
> 
> _[It was a new policy] — Many people tend to forget just how much the Jedi Order changed throughout history. At the time of the Great Sith War (3996 BBY), while Jedi were expected to live comparatively ascetic and selfless lives, they were allowed personal relationships. Jedi were often recruited as adults, had families and children. By the time of KotOR (3956 BBY), only forty years later, we see a far more dogmatic and restrictive Jedi Order reminiscent of the one depicted in the prequel movies. In my head, under pressure of certain conservative voices that had always existed, the Order officially adopted these policies designed to isolate Jedi from outside loyalties at the Conclave on Exis Station (3986 BBY). But this was a **very** recent development, and the new policies haven't yet been fully implemented. The Jedi Council certainly look very poorly on people flouting the new rules, and the youngest generations of Jedi are more effectively indoctrinated, but there are still plenty of Jedi who object to the new order around._
> 
> The Temple Precinct —  _Canonically, the location of the modern Jedi Temple was only donated to the Order around the end of the Great Hyperspace War (c. 5000 BBY). I'm not sure this is realistic, for various historical and political reasons. In my head, the Temple grounds were ceded to the Jedi during the reconstruction after the Pius Dea civil war (which, also in my head, was partially an effort by the Alsakani, who were in charge in the immediate aftermath, to neuter the religious cult by depriving them of the holiest site in their faith), which would have been around 10,960 BBY. The Temple Complex is thus much older than is suggested in canon, having had more than enough time to grow to the absolutely ridiculous scale of the prequel movies. Not the_ _ **same**_   _Temple, of course, since it'll be destroyed more than once over those few millennia, but of similar size. Which is absurd, seriously, the place is fucking enormous._
> 
> _By the way, anyone who enjoys nerdy things and hasn't informed themselves on the topic should go to the Star Wars wiki and read up on the Alsakan Conflicts and the Pius Dea era. Fascinating shit._
> 
> Grandmaster Sunrider —  _Nomi Sunrider, one of the main characters of the_ Tales of the Jedi  _comic series, and the Grandmaster of the Jedi Order immediately following the Great Sith War. Tionne of Luke's Jedi is fond of legends involving her, and Meetra Surik was (partially) trained by her daughter Vima, but her appearances otherwise have been limited for copyright reasons. (Actually, fun fact, Vima was intended to be a companion in KotOR, "Bastila" was originally Juhani's name.) Judging by her age, she should still be Grandmaster of the Order during the Mandalorian Wars._
> 
> * * *
> 
> _Yes, I still exist._
> 
> _I recently lost my job for medical reasons, so I've had more time to write lately. I've been too scatterbrained to focus on any particular one, but I thought I'd share what I do have for my poor, neglected readers. A few other fics were posted at the same time as this one. All of them will be updated randomly, as I finish chapters._
> 
> _This fic specifically, I **just**  wrote that last scene today. It is a bit awkward, and cuts off very weird, but the latter is on purpose, meh meh. (Also, holy shit, those notes at the end, what is wrong with me.) The next chapter will be the entirety of the _Endar Spire _sequence, plus a little extra. So, might be a little while, we'll see._
> 
> _~Wings_


	4. Endar Spire — II

She woke up, and immediately regretted it.

But she knew she couldn't go back to sleep. She had woken somewhere that was definitely not a bed, metal cold and unyielding. There was more than a hint of smoke on the air, each breath coming thick with charred plastics and melted flesh, enough she felt she might vomit, stomach clenching with every twitch, her throat tight and hot.

Or, maybe that was the concussion, come to think of it. At least, she thought this was a concussion. She'd never had one before, but she was feeling pretty certain. Even the slightest movement set something between her eyes to stabbing, her stomach to roiling, her head felt heavy, like someone had set off a fire extinguisher inside her skull, the foam leaking out one of her ears. The sirens weren't helping, her teeth vibrating with each beat of the klaxon, she felt her eyes might fall out of her head.

She couldn't go back to sleep. Well, she wasn't certain she'd  _been_  asleep, it seemed more likely she'd passed out after being hit in the head. That she didn't remember being hit in the head pointed to concussion, yes, she was pretty sure that was a thing. Considering the last thing she  _did_  remember was the ship she'd been on being fired on by a Sith fleet, getting up seemed the proper thing to do.

She should do that. Yes.

The world swirling around her even with her eyes closed, she turned onto her knees. She sat back on her heels, nearly tipping over backward as her head went all fuzzy, the floor shifting under her. She cautiously cracked her eyes open, but while everything was a mass of colored blurs, at least it wasn't too bright. That stinging spot between her eyes only got worse when she was trying to look at things, but she kind of needed to see to walk. As she sat there, shakily breathing, ignoring as best she could how dizzy and weak and awful she felt, she squinted at her surroundings, trying to pick something out of the chunky soup of grey and silver and black and red.

She was in one of the interior hallways of the  _Spire_ , she decided — those  _looked_  like right angles between walls and ceiling, everything made of the familiar grey metal broken with spots of bronze, yes. Around her was a sea of Republic red and gold and black, fuzzy figures splayed out across the deck, in one place huddled together in a corner.

No, not huddled. Piled. Eventually, her vision slowly clearing with each second she sat there blinking, she picked out more details. Patches of a different, wetter sort of red. Limbs that bent the wrong way, heads set at awkward angles. In the corner, bodies twisted into each other, tangled and broken. They were all dead, or at the least injured and unconscious.

A thought surfaced from the dizzy, numb blankness that passed for her brain. Power surge. The ship's system had gone out, perhaps just for the blink of an eye. Including the artificial gravity. They'd all been thrown against the wall, slamming into it at who even knew what speed, under what force.

She'd come away with a concussion. It looked like she'd been lucky.

Her wandering gaze found a face a short distance in front of her, at the edge of the pile of corpses, eyes still and open, one colored an unbroken red. It took her a few seconds to recognize Ulgo. And he was supposed to be getting her to an escape pod.

 _Rude_.

She broke into high, breathless giggles, her head only going heavier and emptier as she struggled to breathe. By the time her chest finally stopped heaving, the corridor stopped swirling, she was lying on her back, sweaty and sick and dizzy, she thought she might pass out again.

No, bad. Get up. She turned over, struggled to get at least one of her feet under her. She stood on shaky knees, but the hallway pitched around her, she crashed to the floor again, her already bruised hip screaming at her. Okay. Ow. She glanced toward the pile of dead Republic men and women. Forcing herself to her hands and knees, she dragged herself across the ground in fits and starts, each breath a sickening fire in her lungs, each beat of her heart setting her head to swimming.

She made it to Ulgo. And cursed to herself — he was dressed as a navy officer, he wouldn't have anything useful on him. She slipped the blaster out from his belt though, wedged it into the waist of her pants at the small of her back, dug the security chit out of his glove, put that deep in her pocket. And she crawled over him, making for the nearest figure wearing proper armor. Luckily, he just so happened to be laid out at an angle she could get at his back. It took her a moment to find the catch in his armor, popped it open.

A first aid kit plopped to the floor at her knees.

She rifled through the contents, sorting through the handful of hypos. Her vision wasn't clear enough to make out the text, but these things were color-coded for a reason. She grabbed a deep blue one, popped the cap with a thumb, and jabbed it into her arm. She didn't feel the injection itself, too numb for that, but the neurostim hit her like a ton of bricks. Her headache immediately got about twenty times worse, white fire radiating down the sides of her neck. She bowed down to her knees, her fingers clutching her head, clenching her teeth to keep herself from screaming.

It faded in a few moments, still hot and tight but at least manageable. When she opened her eyes again, her vision was much clearer, the hallway around her, striped with pale shadows cast by the pinkish emergency lights, now made of sharp lines and corners, the spinning... _mostly_  gone. Mostly would have to do for now, popping two of those right in a row was a bad,  _bad_  idea. Her fingers noticeably more steady than they'd been a moment ago, she closed the pack again, then played out the strap, throwing it over her head and tightening it around her waist. Shuffling over to another nameless corpse, she grabbed a second one, just in case. She gathered a few extra power cells from nearby bodies, slipping them into her pockets, her waistband, tucked away a couple spare gas cartridges while she was at it. Only needed to replace the cartridge every few hundred shots, but, well. She took a second security chit from a body with a sergeant's insignia on his chest, might or might not open more doors than Ulgo's, but, well. She took his com too, clipping it to her waist after a bit of fumbling.

Just in case.

Unfortunately, none of these poor bastards had a blaster rifle. She was a better shot with a pistol, of course, but in tight quarters like this the greater rate of fire and higher powered shots could still be an advantage.

Cianen frowned, tipped back to sit on her ankles again. She pulled the pistol she'd swiped out from her back, held it in her lap. She turned it around, confirming it had a full charge, snapped the chamber open to check the cartridge quick — the inside of the glass cylinder was clear, pristine. She clicked it back closed, flipped the safety off, the electronics whirring to life in her hand. And she stared down at the thing, blinking in astonishment.

How the fuck did she know how to do that? She'd never held a blaster in her life.

She shook her head, casting away the odd thought — which was a bad idea, the corridor went spinning around her again, she had to wait a moment for it to stop. Once reality was done going crazy for a minute, she pulled another pistol from a soldier's belt, confirmed the safety was on with a glance, tucking it away at her back. All right. That should do.

It was a close thing, her numb knees almost refusing to support her weight, but she made it to her feet this time. With one hand against the bulkhead, she stumbled forward, each step she took more steady than the last, the swirling at the edges of her vision slowly fading.

The blaring of the klaxons was still pounding in her head, though. Because the Sith  _had_  to leave that thing working. They were evil like that.

Eventually she made it to the door, a slab of heavy durasteel blocking off the whole hallway. She tucked herself against the wall, blaster held halfway up and ready, and tapped at the panel.

And nothing happened.

Glaring at the thing, she started reaching toward her pocket for Ulgo's security chit. And she froze halfway there, staring at the panel. It had gone dark. The power was cut.

Shit.

A voice suddenly cracked across the air, she whirled around on her heel. Which sent the hallway spinning again, she teetered against the door, glaring at the wall. Because, of course, she'd had her back it, there couldn't have been anyone behind—

"Professor? Can you hear me?"

Cianen jumped, her hand snapping to her waist. Right, the com she'd taken. Ha. She fumbled with the thing, eventually finding the VOX switch, flipping it on. "You just about gave me a heart attack, Onasi."

"Yeah, saw that. Sorry." She blinked, glanced around. There wasn't anyone she could— "You and Jedi Annas are the last two on board still alive. Think you can make it to the escape pods?"

Oh, she got it. He must have been searching for survivors through the camera feeds. "Ah, I'm a bit shaky, but I can walk." Sort of. "Aren't the escape pods this way, though?" she asked, slapping the sealed door with her open hand.

"The quickest way, yes. But you can't go this way, there's a hull breach between here and there. You'll have to go around. I can give you directions, but you'll have to go fast. The Sith are scouring the ship looking for Bastila, and I don't know how long I can hold them off."

"Right." She pushed off the door with a hip, staggered a few steps before finding her balance again. She still had to walk with a hand to the wall, but at least she was moving. Her stomach turning rather more easily now that she was trying to walk, she picked over the corpses strewn about the hall, giving the pile in the corner as wide a berth as she could. Cianen almost couldn't believe she'd been picking over them for supplies just a couple minutes ago. It already didn't feel quite real, like something out of a dream. "I hope it's a short walk."

"I hope you know how to use that blaster."

"We're about to find out."

"...What?"

"Never mind." Cianen limped around the corner, the next hall empty, looking somehow artificial in the strobing of the emergency lights, a slightly less-than-realistic computer simulation. At least there weren't any more corpses around here, or even anything at all, the hall completely empty. Everything must have been shaken out during whatever had killed all those men back there. "Let's rely on my theoretical ability to shoot people as little as possible, shall we."

"Jedi Annas is picking them off, but there will still be a few." Onasi's voice came quieter than it'd been a moment ago, a whisper low enough she almost didn't hear it over the klaxon.

She frowned. Then she glanced ahead, only a few meters away. This hallway opened up into the external corridor, the walls curved, bowing outward. She paused a moment, fumbled at her belt for the com. She flicked off the speaker, unfolded the earpiece, wedged it in place. A quick check the blaster was readied, and she nodded, pointed ahead.

There was an odd note on Onasi's voice, now coming from right against the left side of her head, but he didn't say anything about whatever it was he was thinking. "You'll be going to the right. Around the bend ahead are two Sith troopers, blaster rifles and full armor."

"No way around?"

"I'm sorry, no."

She winced, but started forward all the same, leaning one hip against the wall. Once she was around the corner, the rounded walls of the external corridor meant she couldn't lean against it anymore. She made her awkward, shuffling steps as quiet as she could, which mostly meant going very slow. Her head ached, her spine tingled, her left hip and ankle throbbed, but she kept limping along, blaster pointed unwaveringly at the bend in the corridor ahead. Approaching within a couple meters, she sank to a crouch. Then drew in a sharp breath as her ankle protested, the hot stabbing nearly taking her to her knees. She clenched her teeth, slowly creeped, step by step, toward the waiting soldiers.

It felt rather surreal. Was she really about to kill two people? Cianen had hardly ever even gotten in a fight before. It felt like something out of a dream, a horrible dream.

She stopped just out of sight, leaned her head out just far enough to spy the soldiers around the bend. Two tall, thick figures in the silver and black of the Sith military, covered head to foot in gleaming metal, the breastplate on one sporting a slash of char, a glancing hit. Both carried wicked-looking blaster rifles, as long as her arm. They were clearly talking about something — they faced each other, occasionally twisting with a half-made gesture — but the sound was contained by their helmets, the figures were almost eerily silent in the noise of the wounded ship.

Drawing a long breath through her nose, trying not to wince at how her head flared, she carefully lined up the end of her blaster with the faceplate of one of the soldiers, the one toward the opposite side of the hall, the better angle. With a little pistol like this, there was no way she could burn through that armor, but the visor was just hardened plastic, shouldn't be a problem.

Cianen had no idea where she'd learned all that.

Casting her confusion off, she let out a thin breath, and squeezed the trigger. There was a scream of superheated air, the blaster twitching in her hand, a flash of reddish light too quick to follow. Before she could blink, a glowing gash had been seared into the soldier's helmet, and he was toppling boneless to the ground.

The second started moving, but she was already scrambling backward. After only a few steps she slipped, falling hard on her arse, but she didn't bother trying to get up again. She sat on the floor, blaster pointed upward to the corner, her breath hot in her throat, the clanging of the second soldier's footsteps loud in her ears. The instant he came around the corner, before he could bring his rifle around, she squeezed off a single shot. With a second flash of light, a second squeal of protest, the second soldier was collapsing, dead before he hit the floor.

Cianen took a moment to breathe, her hands quivering, her chest and head throbbing with the pounding of her heart. But only a moment — she had to keep moving.

As she forced herself to her shaky feet, Onasi's voice again sprung to life in her ear. "Not bad, Professor." This time that odd tone on his voice was recognizable as suspicion, most intense on  _professor_ , almost ironic. Which wasn't unreasonable, honestly. He was probably wondering how exactly a bloody xenolinguistics professor had learned to do all this.

Cianen didn't respond. She didn't have anything to respond with. She had no better idea than he did.

A few steps later, she came upon one of the fresh corpses, a thin trail of steam still rising from his helmet. She came to one knee, ignoring the twinge of pain from her ankle. She unhooked one side of the strap on the blaster rifle, gave it a good yank to get it out from under his shoulder, cradled the thing in her arms. Full charge, but a flick of the chamber showed the gas cartridge had gone just a little foggy. Hmm. She reached for the man's waist, unbuckling his belt after a few awkward seconds of fumbling. Thick, black synth bearing spare cells and cartridges down the entire length, was too long to fit around her waist, but she could sling it over a shoulder just fine. The rifle used different sized ammunition than her pistol, after all.

She limped around the bend in the corridor, picked her way over the thin carpet of slain navy officers toward the Sith soldier she'd killed. Most of the Republic people, all of them pocked with charred and bloody blaster wounds, weren't even armed. Seemed...excessive. She kneeled over the first person Cianen had ever killed (don't think about that), started working his rifle out from under him.

"Do you really have to do that?"

There was a twinge of queasiness on his voice, enough she frowned to herself in confusion. "Do what?"

"Loot the bodies."

She blinked. "I'm just taking the weapons." The chamber flicked open, and she saw the gas cartridge in this one was much clearer. She dropped the first one she'd picked up, settled the strap so the second would hang over her hip, comfortably in reach. "It's not like I'm turning out their pockets."

Onasi grumbled a little, but dropped it.

She pushed back to her feet, set off limping down the corridor. Her ankle and hip were getting worse the further she walked, stiffer with each step, throbbing in time with her heartbeat. But she kept going, leaning heavily against a hand on the bulkhead, stumbling now and again over the arms and legs of faceless corpses strewn across the floor, but she didn't fall, forced herself on shaking knees, on, and on, and on.

She imagined, with the rifle and the ammo belts slung over her shoulders, the medpacs and pistol stuck into her waistband, she probably looked like the hero out of a terrible action holo right about now. Cianen had to bite her lip to hold in the mad urge to break into giggles at the thought.

Okay, yeah, she might be just a little delirious. Some medical attention would be nice.

Around another bend in the corridor, she came upon a door. After confirming with Onasi the room beyond was empty, she dug a security chit out of her pocket, waved it over the panel. The door receded into the wall, and she limped into—

She froze, blinking around the room. Half of the emergency lights were out, a few panels throwing out sparks, the place cast in deep, flickering shadows. She made out computer terminals, a few chairs here and there, a large flatscreen, webbed with cracks, stretching all along one wall. "You're leading me toward the bridge."

"Everywhere else is blocked off. It's the only way through."

Gritting her teeth, she started making her way across the room, propping herself against terminals and chairs whenever one was convenient. If the Sith troops were going to be concentrated anywhere, it would be near the bridge. "Any on the other side of this one?"

"Ah, five, looks like."

She stopped, turning to rest half her weight on the corner of a control panel. "Five? You're kidding."

"Afraid not. Have any more tricks up your sleeve?"

"Let's hope so." She tipped fully onto her feet again, then staggered as her head went light and fluffy, her hearing gone fuzzy and the room spinning around her. A hand and a knee against the terminal kept her from falling, a few heavy breaths and her head slowly cleared, the swirling lessened. It didn't go away completely, but it'd have to do.

"Hayal? Are you okay?"

"No, I'm not. In fact, I've been having a  _very_  bad day."

"It seems to be going around."

She grunted. A few moments of limping her way across the room had her coming to rest against the wall, just to the side of the door. There was absolutely no way she'd be able to take out five. With the rifle on full auto, she  _might_  have gotten lucky, but that was far less likely with her head spinning. She doubted she'd be able to pull off the kind of marksmanship she had just a couple minutes ago. (Not that she had any idea how she'd done that in the first place.) Unless she came up with something clever, she was going to die.

Thankfully, she was  _very_  clever.

It took only a couple seconds staring at the pistol in her hands to come to a decision. She did have two of the things. She popped open the chamber, slipped out the cartridge. Poking around the inside, she wrenched the limiter off the board, tore out a bit of the housing, then wedged the cartridge roughly in place, snapped it closed again. She slid out the power cell, whacked the end of it against a nearby terminal. Then again, again, the cap at the end slowly twisting off with each hit. She took the plastic between her teeth, ripped it off, revealing the metal of the high-density batteries inside. She shoved in the little bit of metal she'd taken from the cartridge housing, twisting it around a bit, until she was sure she'd made a bridge between the cells. Taking a steading breath, she slapped the whole pack back into the base of the pistol.

"Uh, Hayal? What are you doing?"

"Improvising." She dialed the power setting all the way up. A security chit held in one hand, her finger hovered over the safety. This was a  _terrible_  idea. "Are they clumped up at all?"

"Yeah, they're all by the door, across the room.  _Shit!_  Go! Come on, come on!"

"What's wrong?" A flick of her thumb had the safety off, the blaster whirring to life. And then whirring more and more, the sound rising to a piercing, electric whine. Before the thing could start burning her hand, she flipped it around, grasping it by the barrel. And she waited, watching the pistol as it started to steam, to spark. A little more. A little more...

"No, it's not me, I— They cornered Annas, she's trying to fight her way out. Come on,  _come on_..."

She scoffed. As far as she was concerned, the more of them the Jedi killed the better. She'd rather her fight it out than sneak around. But she didn't have time to argue, not if she wanted to keep her hand. She swiped her security chit, the door sliding open.

Across the room, strewn with terminals and chairs and projectors but in much better shape, was a clump of figures. Four soldiers in gleaming armor, another in the synthweave of a naval officer, cast in the blacks and silvers of the Sith. She quickly took aim, then hurled the hissing blaster into the room. She didn't wait to watch it land, ducked back around the door, slammed it closed with the push of a button.

Less than two seconds later, there was a muffled  _whoomph_ , the wall shuddered against her back. Ignoring Onasi cursing in her ear, she waited for three counts before opening the door again.

Where the soldiers had been was a ruin, armor and bodies thrown into a blender, reduced to a broken, bloody, smoking mess. The floor and ceiling and parts of the wall near them had been charred black, the closest terminals smashed to sparking pieces, the air quickly thickening with dark smoke.

"Ooh, shit..."

She limped across the room, trying to ignore the way it tilted and spun around her. The smoke only turned her blood thinner, her head so light she feared it might float away, but she kept plodding forward, one step then another. When she noticed one of the armored soldiers was still moving, she put a bolt from the rifle in his back without a blink.

"Remind me to not piss you off."

Through the pain and the dizziness, she felt her lips twitching into a smirk.

She stepped onto the bridge, paused a moment to look around. Not exactly an area of the ship Cianen had been allowed to poke around in. The room was long, narrowing to a point in front of her, where the metal of the hull fell away, the blue-grey curve of Taris slowly wandering across the transparisteel viewports as the  _Spire_  drifted. To her left was a large greenish panel of glass, broken in the middle, shards scattered on the floor. To her right was a bank of terminals and such, some intact and some smashed and fitfully smoldering, forming a solid row splitting the bridge in half. To get to the door on the other side she'd have to walk all the way around, near to the stations for the command crew toward the front.

She could see from here some of the chairs at the front still had bodies in them. There were a couple more strewn across the bridge, but not very many, most of the crew must have gotten out. By the look of the hallways she'd been through, they probably hadn't gotten very far.

Before she could even start for the front of the bridge, the door on the opposite side of the terminals blew open, huge slabs of durasteel tumbling into the room with a crash that made her head flare white, she barely managed to stay standing. She heard the pounding of footsteps, ducked behind one of the terminals, peaked over the edge.

Scrambling backward onto the bridge, her lightsaber moving so quickly it almost seemed a solid blue energy shield before her, blaster bolts melting their way into walls and ceiling and sizzling electronics, was a Jedi. Cianen knew this one, she'd been hanging around when she'd been watching the battle break out on the holoprojector in the briefing room. Didn't know anything about her, wouldn't know her name was Annas if Onasi hadn't said so, but then, she'd avoided contact with the Jedi on the ship as much as possible. They just made her uncomfortable.

She was hardly alone in that. A lot of people didn't like Jedi.

A black-silver blur shot through the door, red striking blue in a shower of a sparks and a squealing noise that made her teeth ache. Slowed down for a second, the blur resolved into another Jedi, a bald-headed man in a mix of synthweave and plasteel, cast in Sith colors. And then they were moving, blue and red lightsabers slashing and spinning and clashing in a dance too quick for the eye to follow, the two figures darting back and forth, jumping over terminals, surrounded with the flashes of sparks and fire and lightning, debris from the smallest shard of glass to whole chairs flying through the air as though caught in a whirlwind, the noise of it incredible, squealing and crashing and hissing.

Yeah, there was nothing she could do about any of that.

Her eyes were drawn by a storm of clanging, heavy boots striking the floor in chorus. A group of Sith soldiers were streaming through the door. Two, three, five...eight, it looked like eight. They hadn't seen her, had their rifles pointed at the fighting Jedi. Waiting for an opportunity to shoot Annas in the back, most like.

There  _was_  something she could do about that. She flicked her rifle into full auto, propped the end against the lip of the terminal, and opened up on the Sith. The ear-piercing scream of superheated air came as a constant agony, her hands consumed with a distracting tingle, blooms of red light and char stitched across silver armor. A few of the Sith were hit, twitching at each smoking hole scored through them before collapsing, but the rest dove away, ducking behind corners and terminals. She ducked before they could fire back, the first shots searing over her head after she was already down. It wasn't quite empty, but she popped out the power cell anyway, slipping a fresh one off the belt.

There was an odd thrum, like her heart beating hard felt everywhere at once, a tingle so intense it hurt running up her spine. Without thinking, she sprung upward, rolling over the bank of terminals, the bone-shivering hum of a lightsaber passing behind her, jabbed in the sides again and again with who knew what as she tumbled to the other side. She fell graceless to the floor on her back, gasping for breath.

One of the Sith soldiers was crouched behind the second terminal from her head, his rifle already turning for her. Firing straight up, she stitched a line of fire across him before he could get a shot off, then rolled over onto her knees, trying to ignore how the room spun with the motion, how the cacophony filling the bridge pounded at her skull. There were still several Sith about, blasters peeking out from behind partitions and terminals and control panels, and she was far too exposed. She swept over their positions with laserfire, not trying to hit them so much as discourage them from hitting her, the metal of the walls glowing a pale red from hit after hit. She managed to take out one of them, a lucky hit right across the top of his head, but she couldn't keep up fire this thick for long, the power cell would run out too quickly.

Just as the rifle beeped at her, five shots left, Annas came swirling back into sight, a tail of blue light trailing her. She jumped, rolled back over to the other side of the terminals, getting a few more stabs in the side from corners and switches and such, popped in a fresh power cell before peeking over again. Annas had fallen upon them with all the unstoppable force of a meteor, lightsaber tearing through metal and plastic as easily as flesh and bone. Most of them were already dead, dismembered corpses mixed with faintly glowing shards of whatever they'd been hiding behind, only a couple still fighting, wildly scrambling backward, firing aimlessly in the Jedi's general direction. She managed to put down one of them, her swirling vision sending half the burst into the wall next to him, Annas slashing through another, flying for the last so quickly she was a blur.

"You!" She jumped, turned around, a hip against the terminal steadying her as the room spun. The Sith was there, lightsaber loosely held down at his side. It was hard to tell, with how unsteady her vision was at the moment, but his eyes did look rather wider than they should be. "How are you—?"

She didn't bother waiting for him to finish his sentence. She squeezed the trigger, and held it there.

The Sith moved inhumanly fast, lightsaber a solid barrier of red light, the bolts hissing against walls and terminals and ceiling instead. Through the eye-dazzling chaos, she caught a flash of actinic blue.

It was cold, like the subzero winds on the mountains outside of Aldera tearing across her face, but a hundred times worse, and reaching much deeper, penetrating to the bone. It was hot, like sticking her hand in a campfire, but a hundred times worse, and running all through her, her blood replaced with magma. Like being sliced into ribbons by a million blades at once, crushed under bone-shattering weight, over and over and over. Vision cast black and white and purple, her blood rushing in her ears, it ran over her in waves, again and again and again, she couldn't get away, it was  _everywhere_ , she couldn't—

The world returned with a numbing crash, leaving her shivering and gasping. She'd fallen against the deck at some point, she wasn't sure where. Her arms and legs more cramp and bruise than flesh, every nerve afire, she was so  _tired_ , the cool metal of the floor felt too good against her cheek, she didn't want to get up. She just wanted to stay here, pass out right here, and let it all fall away.

But she couldn't. She could hear the crashing and crackling of the Jedi and the Sith fighting, only a few meters away, Onasi shouting right in her ear. She had to get up, if she didn't keep moving she would die.

Despite the agony setting her limbs to shaking, she pushed herself to a knee, blindly groped for the lip of a nearby terminal, pulled herself to one foot, the other. Her knees were weak, a constant shiver, her hip and ankle screaming, the bridge reduced to swirling blurs. But she stumbled forward anyway, one hand against the equipment at her side, limping forward one staggering step at a time. Toward the noise of the fighting Jedi. She didn't know what she could possibly do about that, but she wouldn't make it out of here with the Sith still alive, she had to—

Her rifle twitched up, and she fired.

And there was silence.

"Cianen, come... Come here."

She wasn't entirely conscious of doing it. She was so tired, so numb, her body seemed to move on its own. She was limping across the room, then she was kneeling on the floor. The Jedi, Annas, she was sitting there, half thrown over one of the chairs at the front of the bridge, arms and legs limply hanging. There were burns scattered over her, legs and arms, one over her shoulder, the cloth burned away to reveal blackened skin. That wasn't the worst, a bloody pit weeping above her hips, bits of sharpened metal gleaming, flesh shredded into ribbons.

Even with the details muddied by the foam filling her head, she knew at a glance Annas wasn't going to make it.

"You have to..." The Jedi was reaching toward her, bloody fingers grasping blindly in the air. She took her hand, and nearly fell over when the Jedi yanked, wrenching her wrist down and twisting. "You, find Bastila." Annas slid a cylinder of warm metal into her hand, clenched her fingers around it with her own. A lightsaber, she knew with a start. "Go back... You must. Everything, everything dep... You  _must_."

She really didn't know what to say to that. She wasn't even certain what the Jedi was trying to tell her. So she just nodded.

"Go." The Jedi patted the back of her hand, still trapped around her lightsaber, her touch wet with blood. "Go." And she let go.

She straightened, so far as she was actually capable of standing at the moment, clipped the lightsaber onto the ammo belt, over her hip. She hefted her stolen blaster rifle. After a short, tense sort of pause, the Jedi nodded.

The high-powered bolt burned through her skull, and Annas died instantly.

* * *

_Setting the useless hunk of crap on the table with a light thunk, Meetra said, "I still don't see what the point of this is."_

_Lesami's head raised an inch, glancing across the table at her. Thankfully, she wasn't wearing that absurd Mandalorian mask of hers at the moment — she was confident enough in the base's security to go without. So Meetra got a full view of the mild glare Lesami was throwing her, unfiltered voice touched with exasperation. "You can't even guess? That's disappointing. And here Kreia said you were clever."_

_Meetra twitched at the mention of that particular Jedi Master. They didn't exactly get along. Honestly, she was a little surprised she'd spoken well of her to Lesami at all. "I can't believe I'm going to be charging into battle with blasters and grenades."_

" _Grenades are useful." With a sharp motion, Lesami finished whatever she was doing with the rifle, something sliding home with a deep snapping noise, a high whine of electronics powering on. She set the thing down on the table, pointed carefully off to the side, before looking up again. "But no, I wouldn't expect you to use blasters much."_

" _Then what is the bloody point?"_

_Lesami sighed, her eyes tipping up toward the ceiling._

_Over the next minutes, Meetra didn't get her answer. Lesami crouched next to her at the table, walked her through how to replace the gas cartridge, the power cell — she had her practice that several times until she could do it quick enough she was satisfied. Even snapping the thing apart to replace the entire barrel and the emitter worked into the base which, though Republic soldiers always carried a single replacement, only ever failed in extreme circumstances. She had her fumbling over the tuners and settings, quizzing her every so often, going nearly back to the beginning whenever she got anything wrong. And on and on and on and on._

_By the end, Meetra was struggling to not show her growing frustration. Master Vima hadn't taken so long to explain the basic operation of a lightsaber, and that was something she_ actually used _._

_And the long, condescending lecture about how to hold the thing and not point it at anything she didn't want dead, which should really go without saying, was just annoying._

_And then there was the actual shooting. It wasn't by any means difficult — leaning into the Force to augment her aim turned the entire exercise into child's play. She didn't always hit the center of the targets, but she couldn't miss entirely. It did feel a little weird, firing the thing. Sympathetic vibrations from the magnetic accelerators, she knew, a side-effect of slight imperfections in manufacture. Her hands felt a bit tingly and numb after a while, which was making her aim slightly clumsier, but it wasn't that bad._

_What the whole thing was was tedious. Lesami had her firing down the range at nearby stationary targets, then further, then further. Then moving targets, first moving smoothly, then more quickly and erratically. All kinds of nonsense she had her do, they had to be at it for an hour._

_They were at it long enough they weren't alone anymore. They'd come in very early in the morning, when people who couldn't refresh themselves with a half hour of meditation would still be sleeping. It must have been hours, a slow trickle of off-duty soldiers in street clothes finding their way into the range for practice. Mostly ordinary soldiers, anyway — Meetra recognized two beings she knew were Jedi, part of Lesami's entourage. Though they were Temple Jedi, Meetra didn't even know their names. On their way in, most of them acknowledged Lesami one way or another, lazy salutes or waves, a litany of "Commander" as they walked past. A few actually stopped for a quick chat, but Meetra wasn't really listening. The enormous room gradually filled with a low rumble of muttered conversation, the clinking and snapping of blasters being fiddled with, the screech of bolts scorching the air._

_Eventually, Meetra's patience ran out. Popping out yet another expended power cell, she whirled around to face Lesami, keeping the note of annoyance off her voice only from long practice. "I'm sorry, Lesami, but is there a point to all this?"_

_The tiny little woman stared up at her, one eyebrow slowly ticking up. "Still haven't figured it out?"_

" _Why don't you just come out and tell me?"_

_Lesami sighed, her eyes glancing away. Then her head tilted a little, a brief frown crossing her face before being replaced with a warm smile. "Captain. Good to see you on your feet again."_

_Glancing that direction, Meetra spotted a Cathar man, walking by only a couple meters away. He'd obviously had recent surgery, the fur shaved away across half his head, a few other places visible on his arms, giving him a lopsided, ruffled sort of look. "No one's more pleased than I am, Commander." He walked toward their booth, a noticeable limp in his left leg. It must have hurt, but still his eyes were curled into a smile, his voice light. "My men tell me I have you to thank for getting me back alive."_

" _Oh, piss on that." Lesami flipped her fingers in a harsh, dismissive wave. "Just doing my job. Anyone else in my position would have done the same."_

" _Of course, Commander." Meetra was less than familiar with his species, but she had the feeling that was amusement on his voice._

" _Anyway, you have great timing." Coaxing the injured soldier closer with one hand, Lesami turned back to Meetra. "This is Captain Rashah Suun, commander of Tinna Company. Captain, this is Meetra Surik, the best lightsaber duelist of our generation." Meetra instinctively opened her mouth to deny the superlative statement, then closed it again. It was probably accurate._

_Suun blinked. "I thought that was Squint."_

" _Only in his dreams," Lesami said, her smile tilting into something more like a smirk. "I've been giving Meetra here a rundown on standard-issue weaponry, and she can't seem to figure out why I bother. Think you can give me a hand?"_

" _Sure thing." Suun took a few steps closer, practically coming into the booth with them, Lesami moving around behind Meetra to give him room. He poked at the controls to the side for a bit. "We're under fire, take all these out as quickly as you can."_

_Meetra glanced down the range, seeing her alley was filled with a dozen targets, the shielded droids darting all over the place. With a sigh, she slipped a fresh power cell into her rifle, flicked it into full auto, and mowed them all down. At this point, it wasn't even slightly difficult anymore. The thick stream of fire hit one, another, another, pinging the last even as the low power warning beeped at her. She popped out the expended cell, grabbing a fresh one with numbed fingers._

" _Oh shit, there are more."_

_With a quick look at Lesami, finding only an implacable stare containing not a hint of mercy, Meetra turned back outward. This time there were a couple more, but she managed to hit them all, using every single shot._

" _There's one more, quick, take him!"_

_Meetra jumped — either she'd missed one, or Suun had activated another when she hadn't been looking. She yanked back on the release, the depleted power cell clattering to the ground, grabbed a fresh one, slammed it in—_

_The cell skated off the lip of the slot, she nearly drove the thing into her own arm. Meetra made a couple more attempts, but her fingers were too numb from firing so many shots in so short a time, she couldn't get the cell aligned properly. Turning the rifle a little so she could see it, holding the cell closer to the top, she finally got it to slip in. She brought the thing back up, lined up the shot, fired...and missed. "Dammit."_

" _Are Jedi supposed to curse?"_

" _Depends on the Jedi. Most of them are fucking prudes, though."_

_Meetra shot Lesami an exasperated glare over her shoulder. The so frequently aggravating woman just smiled back at her, eyes dancing. "Okay, this is fun, but we'll be getting to the point soon."_

_Instead of either of them answering, Suun poked at the controls some more. She glanced that way to see a single, stationary target, floating there halfway down the range. "Stun this one."_

_A quick flick of a switch, and Meetra fired. Stun bolts, due to the radically different composition of the energy packet, moved far more slowly. Of course, "far more slowly" was relative — something flashing by at twice the speed of sound certainly seemed slow compared to something pushing half the speed of light. The point was, the bluish blaster bolt was actually visible for an instant, lancing out toward the waiting droid...before fizzling out, decohering into a harmless cloud of sparks a few meters short. "What the— Oh, the packet's too loose, isn't it, it falls apart from air friction."_

_She turned in time to catch Suun's nod. "It depends on the composition of the atmosphere a bit, but generally speaking even your high-powered stun bolt has a range of about thirty meters. And, you would have noticed, the more shots you fire the clumsier you get. It wears off pretty quickly, if you take breaks between bursts, but you can't always do that. We have far more practice dealing with it than you do, but even we'll fumble sometimes."_

" _I suspect," Lesami said, her smile gone a bit absent, "that you might have guessed stun bolts have a more limited range. At least, if it occurred to you to think about it. But how numb firing a blaster can make your hands would be new."_

_Meetra frowned. "Well, yeah, I didn't know that. So?"_

_His face contorting into a snarl she felt must be a Cathar equivalent to the human smirk, Suun said, "If you don't know someone's capabilities and limitations, how the hell are you supposed to fight alongside them?"_

_There really wasn't anything she could think to say. She hadn't even thought of that._

_After a short pause, Suun giving Meetra a look she was trying to avoid thinking of as smug, Lesami spoke. "Thank you, Captain. You can get back to whatever you were doing."_

" _Commander, Master Jedi." A quick pair of nods, and Suun turned away, started limping off again._

_Once he was out of earshot, disappearing into the low-key chaos of the shooting range, Meetra turned back to Lesami. "That's it? I mean, we're spending so long going over all this stuff, and..."_

_Lesami gave her an odd look, seeming to be half-amused and half-exasperated. "It's rather important, don't you think? I can't be sending you out with a platoon until you at least know the basics. How are you supposed to lead worth a damn if you don't know what the options are?"_

" _I... Well, I guess it didn't occur to me."_

" _You're not the only one, none of us knew what we were doing at first." Lesami reached over, switched off the rifle Meetra was still holding. She turned around, started walking for the door out, pointing Meetra off to the storage racks with a nod. While Meetra got everything situated away — which took longer than it probably should, she fumbled getting the gas cartridge out — Lesami waited, fingers tapping at one of her arms, crossed over her stomach. "It led to a few...difficulties. I can't tell you how many times I got into shouting matches with Major Nothrian and even the Admiral. I had to learn, like everyone else._

" _It's something we Jedi aren't taught, you know," she said, leading Meetra out the door. By the first couple turns she took through the tight, empty halls, probably toward the mess. "How to fight with non-Jedi, I mean. Oh, we do get combat training, of course, but it's all geared toward a very particular sort of combat. A small number of Jedi against a similar number of Sith, or against some group of criminals or militants. Our training regiment isn't designed with proper battles in mind. Which is by design, the Council believes Jedi have no business fighting in wars."_

 _Meetra shrugged. "In any other situation they might have been right. They couldn't have anticipated the naked barbarism of the Mandalorian method of war. With the Republic unwilling to take the threat seriously, we had to do something." Of course, the Republic was taking the Mandalorians seriously_ now _, they'd just taken too long. If not for the Revanchists, the Republic might have moved too late, and it was already a close thing, the Mandalorians pouring through the Slice virtually unchecked._

 _Somewhat to her surprise, Lesami shot an unimpressed glare over her shoulder, sudden and sharp enough Meetra jumped. "Any student of history could have anticipated this. The Senate has demonstrated a consistent pattern of caring little for conditions on the rim. If things had gone differently, they might have ignored the Mandalorians right up until they invaded the Arrowhead. The Order, despite our traditional insistence we are not an army, have found ourselves pulled into one war after another, all through the history of the Republic. None of this is new. The 'barbarism' of the Mandalorians isn't even unusual. We may like to think we're an enlightened people, that we have rules of engagement, but those rules are almost always abandoned once the fighting starts. War_ is  _barbaric. Nothing will ever change that._

" _But that's not the point," Lesami said, waving the topic away. "You'll hear all these people who think they're great military geniuses talking about how you have to know your enemy. Above all else, you have to know your enemy. But too many of them miss something critically important: no matter how thoroughly knowledgeable you are about the people you're fighting, it's useless if you don't understand_ your own people _. And I'm not just talking about their training and weaponry. Have you studied the Seventh Alsakan Conflict in detail?"_

_Meetra blinked. "I know the basics, of course, but not really." The Seventh Conflict was, at its core, a civil war within the Pius Dea Republic. It'd been going on for some time, the theocratic, xenophobic perversion of the Republic scrambling to suppress one rebellion of some non-human species, then another, then another._

_Eventually the Jedi, having abandoned the former democracy nearly a millennium previously, joined forces with the Alsakani, who had seceded with near on a third of the known galaxy to form their own, far more enlightened state. They entered the war on the side of the rebels, liberated the core, and overthrew the Contispex dynasty. For a century afterward, during what is now called Reconstruction, Alsakan operated as the_ de facto  _capital of the Republic, Coruscant essentially under military occupation. In the aftermath, the Alsakani donated to the Order the land on which the Temple now stood, charging them to keep a closer eye on the political climate on Coruscant to stop such a thing from ever happening again. Beyond that, Meetra didn't know anything more about the period._

 _When studying history, the primary impression one came away with was that galactic civilization was_ old —  _the Constitution of the Republic had been signed over twenty-one thousand years ago, and the Order had been around in one form or another even longer. No matter how much someone might want to, it was impossible to study it all. Even experts were only knowledgeable of a certain period or topic. Beyond recent centuries and the Hundred Year Darkness, Meetra had only a rough impression of major events._

" _Well, the traditional narrative focuses on the various regional rebellions, the influence of the Jedi, the meddling of the Alsakani and the Corellians, but it was more complicated than that. Only devout members of the Faith were allowed to ascend to any sort of significant rank in their military, but full on a_ third  _of them defected. They were ordered to kill rebels, dissidents, even protestors. Firing into crowds, harmless people. One Crusade after another, scorching worlds from orbit, wiping out billions of people, entire species. These commanders, they were moral beings — pius beings, as they would put it. The xenophobic brainwashing they'd all undergone could only hold against such atrocities for so long. In time it was too much, and they broke with Coruscant, turned their guns against the very empire they'd been serving, pleaded with the Jedi and Alsakani to join their cause. Without the Renunciates, the Pius Dea Republic wouldn't have fallen nearly as swiftly as it did._

" _See, Meetra, you have to understand your own people. Not just their capabilities, but how they feel, what they_ believe _. How can you command an army if you don't know what it can do? How can you lead anyone if you don't know what moves them, their passions, their dreams, their fears?" As Lesami spoke, they walked into the mess, dozens of soldiers packed around them, the noise of clinking and chattering and laughing a physical weight pressing against Meetra's skull. Lesami didn't slow, but she wasn't watching where she was going, her eyes instead sweeping over the room, taking in them all with the intensity of a student at lecture. "Any leader who doesn't understand the skills, hearts, and minds of her own people is doomed to failure, sooner or later. Do you understand now?"_

" _Lesami, with the way you go on, if I didn't get it by now I'd be concerned for my own intelligence." The thought had occurred to her before, if Lesami hadn't been drawn out to war by the Mandalorians she'd probably have become one of the instructors back at the Temple. That is, assuming the Council would permit it — as knowledgeable and even professorial as she could get at times, Lesami was hardly the most dogmatic of Jedi._

_In fact, Meetra thought she understood rather more than she was meant to. She hadn't missed the faint note of admiration on Lesami's voice as she'd spoken of the Renunciates._

_Unease hung over her at the thought, a distracting tingle crawling across the back of her neck._

* * *

Her heart pounding in her throat, her blood filled with fire, she jerked, snapped up to sitting. Or, at least, she  _tried_  to — her head didn't move a millimeter, locked solidly in place against her pillow.

No, not a pillow. The realization bubbled up from somewhere deep under the surface, drawn out by the odd weight draped over her, the scrambling of feet and the shouting of voices and blaring of alarms. The patches of an odd, cold, sticky wetness here and there across her body, numb but distracting. Bacta patches. She wasn't on a bed, not really. She was in a medcenter somewhere. They'd immobilized her, but not all of her, she could still move her hands and feet. CNS trauma, they thought she had a cranial or spinal injury.

Judging by the hot throbbing in her head, they weren't far wrong about that.

"Good, you're awake." An arm, sleeve pale and skin dark, drifted into view, a manual hypo slung in its fingers. A doctor, had to be, only professionals used those, judging by the texture of his skin a human one. She felt an odd wave of cold through her neck as whatever was in there was injected into her blood. In an instant, the agony in her head diminished, the heat of what must have been an adrenal of some kind fizzling out. "Can you speak? I need you to ask a few questions for me."

She worked her tongue for a moment, her mouth dry and filled with ash. The doctor leaned over her, some device she didn't recognize held in his hand, pressed close to her forehead. He was an older man, dark skin thinly wrinkled, white shot through his bushy eyebrows and mustache. Her voice came out as more croak than speech. "Shoot, Doc."

"What's your name?"

For a brief, disorienting moment, she couldn't remember. But then it came, floating out of the fuzziness that filled her head. "Cianen," she said, but even as she said it, she felt... It felt like knowledge, a fact she'd learned somewhere, but she didn't quite...

"Nice to meet you, Cianen. My name is Zelka."

"Charmed."

His mustache twitched with the shadow of a smile. "Do you have any chronic medical conditions I should know about?"

"No."

"Count down from twenty-five by threes for me."

She got down to ten before he stopped her.

"Do you know where you are?"

"...Taris?"

"Is that a question?"

"I was in an escape pod..."

Zelka nodded. Whatever he was doing, there was an odd tension in the side of her head. It didn't hurt, exactly, it just felt...weird. "Yes, you're on Taris. Name as many of the Core Founders as you can."

She hesitated, but just for a second. "Alderaan, Coruscant, Alsakan, Caamas, Shaw-Shawken, Corellia, Duro, Tepasi, Chandrila, Brentaal, Axum, Anaxes, Kuat, Rendili, Iphigin, Humba—"

"Stop, stop. What was the first question I asked you?"

"What's my— No, can I speak."

"Right." Zelka lifted whatever that thing was away from her head, a wave of dizziness sweeping over her before vanishing again. "You're going to be fine. You have some bruising, and what looks like light burns from grazing shots, but none of that looks serious. I know they can itch, but try not to scratch at the bacta patches, we can probably take them off tomorrow. You did have a concussion and a mild cranial hemorrhage, but I was able to repair the damage, and the swelling went down with meds. However, you might still be dizzy for some hours yet, so I recommend you keep off your feet. Oh, and, if you can't hear out of your left ear that's normal, we'll look at it again if it isn't better in a day or two.

"Did you have any questions for me?"

That didn't sound too bad. Considering everyone else in the hall she'd woken up in had died, and how completely out of her depth she'd been fighting her way to the escape pods, that actually sounded pretty fucking good. "Nah, I'm good. Let me up, maybe?"

"Oh, of course, sorry." There were a few little beeps to her side, and the invisible bands holding her in place loosened, her head sagging to the side a bit before she caught it. "If you're going to be moving around, just try not to get in—"

"Doctor! We're losing this one!"

"Shit." Zelka swept through the side of her vision, running off deeper into the room, shouting about combined adrenals and unisubs. Before long, she lost his voice in the cacophony filling the room to bursting.

Her arms weak, her head tingling and floating, she pushed herself upright. She was right about the medcenter thing, obviously. The clinic had maybe twenty beds, metals and plastics cast in antiseptic whites and greens, the walls lined with cabinets and coolers and all kinds of equipment she didn't know enough about medicine to recognize on sight. The place was a mess, most of the beds occupied with mangled and bleeding men and women wearing torn and blackened fragments of Republic uniforms, the floor between packed with beings. A few wore white and green uniforms, clearly medical staff of some kind, but the majority were in street clothes, running the gamut all the way from the casual comfort of the upper middle class to the rags of the destitute.

A thought floated up from somewhere deep beneath the surface:  _volunteers_. It happened, all the time, in emergency situations, citizens of conscience pouring in off the streets to give medical professionals any assistance they could. By the paucity of staff she could make out in the crowd, and just how many patients they seemed to have, she was betting they could use the help.

She watched — passive, empty — as Zelka and a handful of aides scrambled to keep someone alive, the patient completely obscured by the people around them. For long minutes they worked, until, letting out an explosive curse she could hear from across the room, Zelka jerked a sheet down the bed, and sidled over to the next patient, jumping straight into motion.

Less than a minute later, a pair of Ithorians appeared, lifted the body off the bed, and disappeared out the door. With that kind of coordination, that couldn't be the first corpse they'd moved today.

"You're still alive. That's something."

She jumped, jerked around to look over her shoulder. The sudden movement had her head spinning, she closed her eyes a moment to fight back the nausea. There was a man standing there, a human man, just a couple steps from the bed. Dark hair fashioned by sweat into spikes, dark eyes shadowed by a frown, the masculine sort of face you got weird looks for calling  _pretty_. It wasn't until after she caught the two blaster pistols at his waist, ineffectively hidden by a padded leather jacket, that the name came to her. "Onasi. Don't look too happy. I wouldn't want to think you care." The sarcasm came easy, natural, right.

But Onasi didn't seem to take it well, his frown narrowing as he turned to her. It took him a moment to find his words, she could almost hear his teeth grinding. "We're the only ones likely to live so far."

She blinked. She looked out into the room, the beds filled with wounded Republic men and women, the streets, the skies filled with who knew how many more.

Oh.

The thought of all those people, thousands of them, wounded and dying and dead — and for no real purpose, it'd been a trap, she had  _warned_  them — left her feeling...exhausted. Not an exhaustion of the body, but more a sort of heavy despair falling over her. She  _could_  get up, but a part of her didn't want to. A part of her just wanted to lie back and rest, rest and never rise. To give up on the outside galaxy, let it tear itself apart without her. A part of her, a deep, visceral thing rising from the very core of her, was tired, so very  _tired_ , and didn't want to do this anymore.

Even as the thoughts, the feelings crashed over her, like waves striking shore, she slowly grew confused. That reaction didn't make any sense. What exactly was she so tired of, what didn't she want to do anymore? Cianen had never been in this sort of situation before. If anything, she should be in shock, not... It didn't make any sense.

Except she had, she had been here before. All these people who had died, it hadn't been necessary, she'd  _warned_  them, she should have done more, she should have  _made_  those idiots see. This feeling, she could have done  _something_ , it was painful, it was overwhelming, it was depressing.

And it was familiar. It was unpleasant, yes, but in an odd way...natural. Like she'd felt like this before, far too many times before.

It didn't make any sense.

But it wasn't the first thing that had happened lately that didn't make any sense. Over the years, she'd studied more languages than she could remember, needed both hands to count the ones she spoke fluently. But, in her time on Coruscant, waiting for the Jedi to clear her, she'd overheard a few languages she was pretty sure she'd never studied before. Dosh, Yuska Rodese, a Devaronian language she didn't even know the name of, whatever the hell the Givin spoke, Ithorian, Anash Zeltrosi. She didn't remember studying any of them, but she understood every word she heard, as easily as though it were Basic. She'd even held a few full conversations in Caamasi, which she had studied theoretically, but certainly hadn't practiced to the point of fluency.

And that hadn't been the only thing about Coruscant that had felt, just, familiar. She'd made excuses about it to herself, that the core worlds were culturally and architecturally similar, it just reminded her of Alderaan, it meant nothing. But she'd been fooling herself, she knew that now. The Capitol District looked  _nothing_  like Aldera, the aesthetics were similar but the layout of the buildings wildly different. She'd never gotten lost in the Jedi Temple, she'd never gotten lost anywhere.

Except, one time, she sort of had. One night, the Jedi had finally released her rather late, the sun had long set by the time she was getting into her rented airspeeder. She'd flown without thinking, landed at an apartment building, only a couple miles away, very fancy. On autopilot, she'd walked the halls, rode the turbolifts, came to a particular door. She'd only stopped when she'd reached for a security chit that wasn't there, and belatedly realized she had no clue where she was, what she was doing.

And on the  _Spire_. The D-213 and C-206, the blaster pistols and rifle she'd picked up, she knew everything about them. She knew who'd designed them, and when, she knew where they were manufactured, she knew their charge tolerances and power ranges and rates of fire, she knew all of it. She didn't know where she'd learned any of that.

And she knew how to use them. She'd killed people with them. But she'd never touched a blaster in her life, Cianen had never even  _slapped_  anyone before.

And yet it'd felt...

She leaned forward on the bed, resting her elbows on her knees. Avoiding the bandage she felt at the side of her head, she rubbed her temples, the effort useless against the spinning, the throbbing, the lurching of her stomach.

Something was seriously wrong with her.

She was saved from her own thoughts a few minutes later. A group of locals showed up, carrying between them a figure in a Republic flightsuit.

A Bothan with black fur.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kreia —  _There's a fan theory that Kreia and Arren Kae, the mother of Brianna from KotOR II, are the same person. I'm not incorporating that theory. While Arren was Lesami's primary lightsaber instructor at the Temple, she was more Kreia's apprentice than anyone's._
> 
> Hundred Year Darkness —  _A civil war amongst the Jedi (and, by extension, the Republic) following the Second Schism. (7000 BBY, about three thousand years before KotOR.) After being defeated, the survivors of the Dark Jedi were exiled from the Republic, where they eventually stumbled into Sith space and reformed the feuding clans into an empire. And we all know how that went._
> 
> Pius Dea Renunciates and the Seventh Alsakan Conflict —  _This is all canon, by the way. Well, pre-Disney canon. When I say "canon", assume I mean the EU before Disney came around and axed all of it._
> 
> * * *
> 
> _So, here's a thing._
> 
> _It's a weird coincidence. I just started reading a fic where the plot is thrown a bit off when the MC gets a head injury on the_ Spire _, kicking the implanted personality a bit askew. Which was my plan from the beginning. (Though, the Jedi kind of fucked it up in the first place, not the point.) Apparently, my ideas aren't as original as I think they are. xD_
> 
> _Until next time,_  
>  ~Wings


	5. Taris — I

"And why should I help you again?"

Roughly half a day later, and Zelka's clinic had emptied considerably. Most of the beds were empty, all of the volunteers were cleared out, leaving only a skeleton staff of Zelka and a couple techs to look after the survivors. Not that there were many of those — the only ones left were a half dozen Zelka had stuck in bacta tanks (the only one she recognized was Ferlip), none of whom he expected to survive. Asyr, though, was going to make it. She was laid out on one of the beds, lines sticking out of her arms and monitors beeping, looking rather odd with patches of her fur shaved off and covered in kolto patches, lopsided. She'd woken up briefly, a couple hours after she'd been brought in, Zelka was sure she'd recover.

If she'd had any reason to doubt Asyr was tough as nails, they'd all been dispelled now. From what she could tell, reading between the lines of what the people who'd brought her in had said, Asyr had taken a glancing blow in orbit, frying her fighter's electronics, sending her into a freefall towards the surface. She must have pulled some emergency rewiring right there in the cockpit, because she managed to fire her repulsorlifts hard just before landing, shattering glass and flinging trash and debris into the air. She still crashed, of course, but she survived.

Apparently, she'd even managed to fight off the thugs from some swoop gang who had been the first on the scene. The people who'd brought her to Zelka had found her sitting with her back against her ruined ship, half-conscious, one hand clutched over a bleeding wound in her side and the other around a blaster, surrounded by perforated and smoking corpses.

She wasn't even really surprised. Bothans did make a point of being unreasonably good at everything they did.

She was sitting in a chair next to Asyr's bed, watching her sleep. Mostly, if she were being honest with herself, out of a lack of any better ideas on what she should be doing. Taris was Sith-controlled, and as far as she knew there wasn't a University campus. She doubted there was even an Alderaanian consulate here anymore — there would have been before, of course, but they'd likely fled ahead of the Sith. She'd been forming a vague idea of looking around for a bank she knew, see if she could access her accounts and buy her way off planet, but she hadn't been seriously thinking about it yet.

Her head still swam sometimes, thinking too hard hurt.

It wasn't the only thing giving her a headache. Onasi was making an enormous bloody nuisance of himself. He was standing over her, arms crossed firmly over his chest, brow lowered in an angry glare. An angry glare that wasn't turned directly at her — once she'd woken up enough to pay attention to such things, she'd realized she wasn't exactly wearing much. Which hadn't come as much of a surprise, she wouldn't expect her clothes had been any good anymore.

He might be avoiding looking at her for more than a couple seconds at a time, but he sure wasn't shy about lecturing at her. "You swore an oath to the Republic, same as me."

She frowned up at him. "Um,  _no_ , I didn't."

Rolling his eyes, Onasi let out something between an exhausted sigh and an irritated scoff. "Come off it, I know already. No reason to go on playing dumb."

"Know what?"

"Granted, I have no idea  _why_  the Jedi made such a big fuss of going all the way to Coruscant to pick up a SecInt agent, but—"

"SecInt?" Even as she repeated it, the abbreviation filled itself out in her head. "Wait,  _Security and Intelligence Service?_  You think I'm with Republic counter-intelligence?"

Onasi forced out another thick sigh. "Yes,  _obviously_. The mission's gone completely fubar, you might as well quit the act."

For a short moment, she could only stare, her mouth working silently. "What the fuck makes you think I'm an intelligence agent?"

"Am I supposed to believe you learned to shoot like that back home on Shelkonwa?" Onasi let out a scoff, shaking his head to himself. "Hell, I'd never even thought of turning a blaster into a grenade like that until I saw you do it, didn't know it was possible."

"Well, no one  _taught_  me to do it! I just... I just realized I could."

"I guess you  _just realized_  you could fight while you were at it."

The sarcasm was obvious, but the words had her coming up short, the building irritation abruptly draining away. "Yes, actually, that's exactly how it went."

"I'm serious, this isn't the time to—" Onasi turned, clearly intending to yell at her, but he suddenly froze. The glare shifted, turning less angry and more confused. "You're not just messing with me, are you."

It wasn't really a question. "No, I'm not. I had no idea I could do any of that. I think..." She broke off, turning to frown down at the table. Not at Asyr, not even at the table itself, really, just in that general direction, unfocused. She bit her lip, turning the thought around for a moment. "I think my memory's been modified."

"What? How is that—" Onasi broke off before he'd even finished the sentence, eyes going wide. When he spoke again his voice was lower, cautious, as though speaking of it too loudly would make it more real. "I've heard terrible things, of what the Force can do to a person. Mess with memories, drive you insane, destroy everything you are." Eyes going softer, just the slightest note of pity, "You don't think...?"

"If some Jedi did do this to me, they did a pretty shoddy job." Not all of her mind had been altered — her explicit and implicit memories didn't match, implying they came from different sources. And she had plenty of semantic memory that didn't fit either. It was almost like whoever had done it had only gone for her episodic memory. Which, well, that  _was_  what most people thought of when they said the word "memory", but the subject was actually far more complicated than that.

The really weird thing was, she hadn't even noticed anything was wrong until she'd woken up during the battle. There had been a few odd moments on Coruscant, but none of those had been jarring enough for her to really notice at the time. But on the  _Spire_... It was like that hit to her head had shaken something loose, the fictions stitching together  _everything she was_ , as Onasi had put it, starting to fray apart.

She was starting to suspect it might be one hell of a mess in here. She'd been trying to not think about it. Had been doing pretty well, too, until Onasi had gone and stuck his handsome nose in it.

"This sounds more like something a Sith would do. Hey, there's a thought..."

She waited a moment for Onasi, eyes staring unfocused into the near distance, to put words to whatever he was thinking about, before giving up and asking. "Going to share this thought of yours?"

He blinked, turned a dense look down on her. Tired, sad, pitying. "Maybe you  _were_  a Republic agent, and you were captured. The Sith tortured you, broke your mind. The Republic recovered you, but it was too late. The Jedi fixed your head up as much as they could, but— Hey!" he said, eyes going wide, excitement slipping into his tone. "Maybe that's why they want you on Dantooine! Maybe whatever they were bringing you there for has something to do with your last assignment, they might be trying to help you remember."

That was ludicrous. She opened her mouth to say so, then froze, let it fall closed again. She couldn't honestly say it was impossible. She had no better explanation.

A frown narrowed her eyes — Coruscant. The weird events, knowing things she couldn't explain knowing, it had started on Coruscant. The Jedi had insisted on an overlong interview, stretched over several days, before confirming her for the project. Felt more like a psychological evaluation than anything. It'd seemed strange and excessive at the time, but the Jedi could be strange and excessive, she hadn't thought...

Come to think of it, how had she even gotten to Coruscant in the first place? There were shuttles from Alderaan all the time, but she couldn't remember...

"I think you're right," she said, the words slow and cautious. "Well, I can't say about the Republic agent part and the thing on Dantooine one way or the other, but I think the Jedi might have been helping me. The confusing moments started on Coruscant, they were asking me all these questions that had nothing to do with the job. I don't even remember getting there, I think..."

The thought had her teetering on the edge of a black, yawning pit, her stomach rising up her throat, a sudden frigid wave flashing over her head to toe. The thought was terrible, horrifying, part of her rebelled against it, so hard she felt the beginning of tears sting at her eyes. But at the same time, she knew it, she  _knew_. No matter how awful the truth was, as soon as she saw it she couldn't make herself unsee.

"It's all fake. Me, I mean, my life, everything. The Jedi made the whole thing up."

Onasi said nothing, falling into blessed silence for what felt the first time in hours. But he was looking at her. The rigidity had gone out of his stance, the glare had disappeared entirely, his face had gone soft. There was warmth in his eyes, filled with pity.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, her stomach tightened with hot fury, her teeth clenching. She didn't want his pity, she hated feeling— She straightened in her chair, cleared her throat, trying to work the anger out of her voice. "So, in light of all this, explain to me again why I should help you find Jedi Shan. I can't see what it has to do with me, honestly."

"She's—" Onasi broke off again, frowning to himself. "I guess you have no obligation to. I think I'm right, that you were a Republic agent, but if you don't remember it, you may as well not be. But it's really quite simple. The Republic won't survive long without Bastila. I don't pretend to understand how this Force stuff works, but..."

He wasn't entirely wrong about that — however exactly that  _battle meditation_  thing worked, it was clear even to her, who knew little in the way of details about how the war was going, that the Republic had little chance without it. Anyone not blinded by denial could see it. The Sith were just too many.

"Do you  _want_  Malak in charge of the galaxy?"

"No." The word tore from her lips, automatic but harsh. Malak might have been a great man once, but these days he was nothing more than a bloodthirsty maniac. The Republic had serious flaws, she couldn't deny that, but an empire ruled by Malak would be a hundred times worse.

She still thought the Jedi had made a serious miscalculation when they'd decided to assassinate Revan. She might have seemed the bigger threat to the Republic, but at least she'd been a reasonable human being. Malak was...something else. It hadn't accomplished anything, it'd just made everything worse.

And besides, she'd been under the impression the Republic considered assassinating political leadership to be a war crime. But she didn't expect the Jedi to  _not_  be hypocrites.

Onasi gave her a crooked, cocky smile, laughter dancing in his eyes, and, damn him, she'd forgotten how handsome he was, smirking like that. Not making her any less annoyed. "Then I guess you have no choice. This is gonna be hard enough with the two of us, you know, there's no way in hell I can do it by myself."

She jerked her head to the side, gritting her teeth. The irritating little shit was right. Malak would be the death of billions if he wasn't stopped. If there was anything she could do to rescue Bastila, get her back on the front lines where she belonged, she had to do it. She had no choice.

No, that wasn't exactly right. She did have a choice — nothing was  _forcing_  her to help, she didn't  _need_  to. But if she didn't, if she could stop it and did nothing, at least a portion of the blood of those billions would be on her hands. She  _chose_  to not accept that.

 _There is_ always  _a choice._

Her head went floaty again, she shook it off. It took her a second to remember where exactly they'd been in the conversation, she'd gone off for a moment there, disoriented. "You might have forgotten, you're not alone. You have Asyr."

Onasi shook his head. "Unfortunately, she won't be going anywhere for at least a couple days. Face it, Hayal, you're all I've got."

Dammit. The little shit was right. Again.

She really hoped he wasn't going to get into the habit of doing that.

She let out a long, heavy sigh, staring up at the ceiling. The bright, too-white lights stung at her eyes, but she ignored it. "I don't suppose we could find me some clothes first?"

Clearly pleased by her surrender, Onasi gave her another smirk. And there he went being far too handsome again.

Yeah, let's hope  _that_  wasn't going to become a habit of his either.

* * *

She stepped out into artificial twilight, the towers stretching far over her head reducing the sky to a thin blue band. Still staring upward, not turning to him, she asked Onasi, "So, did you actually have a plan in mind, or are we just going to wander around until we hear someone in the middle of a prissy lecture?"

"Bastila hasn't been captured yet, so she's probably somewhere in the lower levels. The Sith presence is thinner the lower you go."

"We should set up a base first. It could take days to find her, we'll need somewhere to sleep."

"Right, of course. The alien quarter of the capital isn't far from here. There might be abandoned apartments pretty close to the top, with how xenophobic Tarisians can be."

She blinked in confusion for a second, then nodded. Right, she knew about that — the original colonists of the planet had been human, other beings only immigrating as trade took off in the last couple centuries. The Tarisians had gotten used to being the only species on the planet, and hadn't handled the diversification of their population at all well. Non-humans were second-class citizens, the ones that were even citizens at all. The alien quarter of the upper levels this close to the center of the capital would be nearly empty.

The suggestion there would be empty apartments made sense, but she was less than convinced claiming one was a good idea. She glanced to the side, shooting him a look. "You might want to get your short-term memory checked, Onasi."

He was far less handsome when he was glaring at her. Which was just an additional reason to annoy him as often as possible. "And here I thought you were the one with memory issues."

Part of her wanted to be angry at him for throwing that back at her, but it didn't even hurt, really. And honestly, she preferred to avoid thinking about that as much as possible. She couldn't have an existential crisis if she just ignored the matter entirely. "You  _just said_  the Sith presence is thinner the lower you go. I was assuming you would prefer to not be arrested but, hey, I'm not the Republic officer here. If you want to walk into their arms, be my guest."

"I suppose you have a better idea," he said, scowling.

"I'm sure we can find somewhere we can hole up further down. Near a market or cantina of some kind, if possible."

And that scowl just got deeper, his lip curling enough she could see his teeth. "So we can be killed in our sleep by a gang thug or some random thief."

She shrugged. "Sith thugs or criminal thugs. Take your pick. I think the Sith are a greater threat, myself."

For a few seconds, Onasi just stared at her, and she stared back, an eyebrow slowly crawling up her forehead. Then he threw his head back, let out a harsh sigh. "And how do you suppose we get down there? You might have forgotten, but the Sith have all the turbolifts on lockdown."

"Honestly, Onasi, it's like you've never been on a city planet before." Holding out her hand, "Give me the pad." He gave her another glare, but after a few seconds he surrendered, digging the datapad Zelka had loaned them out of his pocket.

Zelka had been quite generous, actually. He'd done his best to save as many of the Republic people as he could, though admittedly there hadn't been much he could do for most of them. But he'd treated Asyr and herself, and hadn't mentioned a thing about payment. He'd gotten both of them clothes — herself because hers had been ruined, Onasi so he didn't have to walk around in a Republic uniform. Hers weren't great, true. In her size, he'd only been able to track down a too-baggy dress, leggings of some synthetic material she didn't recognize, torn and fraying in a couple places. The boots were fine, though a little too big, her feet slipped in them with every step. But she could walk around without drawing  _too_  much attention, which would have to be good enough.

Not that carrying around a blaster helped with that too much. At least she'd been able to tie the lightsaber Annas had given her high up her thigh, that could have led to awkward questions. Zelka's suspicious stares had been bad enough.

He'd even given them a few credit chits and a datapad, loaded with a map of the capital. She opened that up now, waiting a moment for the outdated pad to cache, tapping her foot on the plasteel walkway. Once it was up, she scrolled around a bit, flipping between levels, looking for a tower that would work. "Got it." She marked their current location quick, so they could find their way back to the clinic later, closed the thing out. "Follow me."

Contrary to what most people believed, no two city planets were the same. They weren't even uniform in different regions of the same planet. There were, however, a few basic principles that applied to almost all of them. The simplest one involved property values — generally speaking, the wealthiest people would be nearest the top, the industrial wasteland usually found at the planetary surface inhabited by the most destitute. According to the map, and just by the look of the place, they weren't quite at the top of the towers, but certainly some ways into the upper levels. The walls around them were all chrome and glass, glimmering in the thin sunlight. The street they were walking down, actually a suspended platform a kilometer or two above the surface, was split in the middle with a garden, bushes and flowers in bloom, the air sweet and spicy, thinly populated with well-dressed, well-mannered beings (mostly humans), the occasional gleaming aircar flicking by overhead.

The lower levels, of course, wouldn't be nearly so pleasant.

The quickest way between levels were the huge, highspeed turbolifts, designed by the government just for that purpose. But, according to Zelka, since the Sith invasion the swoop gangs had risen in revolt, the lower levels were practically their own country by this point. To stop the gangs from assaulting the upper levels in force, the turbolifts were now strictly controlled.

But, see, the turbolifts were the  _quickest_  way, not the  _only_  way. One of those universal principles of ecumenopoli was that they were not built up evenly. They would start as ordinary, terrestrial skyscrapers. Separate buildings, of separate designs. They would spread out as far as they could, grow closer and closer together as space ran out. And then they started building up, but they couldn't tear one down and replace it with a taller one. No, there was no room. Instead, they built tower on top of tower, on top of tower, again and again. Occasionally, a walkway, called a concourse in architectural parlance, would be slapped between the towers, giving the illusion of a "ground" floor, usually every thirty stories or so. The lower structures had to be regularly reinforced, of course — on most city planets, preventing the superstructure from collapsing upon itself was a multi-billion credit construction project that never ended — but the older buildings were technically never replaced.

And therein lay the trick. The towers didn't all start and end at the same heights — just because two buildings exited onto the same concourse didn't necessarily mean this was the first floor for both of them. And each of them had their own way of getting from floor to floor inside of them, be they turbolifts or even just stairs. So, they didn't have to use the big, official, government-run turbolifts. They could just descend  _inside_  the towers, gradually making their way down level by level, switching from one building to another whenever one came to a dead end. It would take longer, obviously, but it wasn't that complicated.

And no, she had no idea where all that was coming from. Before those few weeks on Coruscant, Cianen had never been on a city planet before. She certainly hadn't the experience to know any of this. But she was trying to avoid thinking about that.

She led Onasi into the tower she'd found, the inside brighter than the outside, warm lights gleaming against polished hardwood. Looked real too, nice place. Some commercial district by the look of it, stores of all kinds separated from the hallway by ceiling-high panels of glass, but that wasn't important. It was only a brief search to find a lift. They took it all the way down. It took a while, shoppers loading and unloading at nearly every floor, so she pulled out the map again, panned around a little. The bottom floor was much like the one they'd entered on, if slightly less clean, some of the stores dark. She walked off for the nearest exit, coming out onto the narrow walkway hugging the building.

It was far darker here than it'd been at the top — but then, it should be, with two concourses above them the sun was completely blocked now. They didn't happen to be on a concourse level, she could see one above and below, the towers separated with what looked to be an eight meter gap, narrowed somewhat with little walkways here and there, running around the buildings, stitching them together in places. It took her only a second to orient herself, and she was walking off again, slipping through the thin crowd on the tiny walkway.

"Do you even know where you're going?"

She shot a smirk over her shoulder. "Come on, Onasi, don't you trust me?"

And there was that scowl again. His face was getting a fair bit of exercise today. "Trust you? Lady, I don't even know who you are."

Well, that made two of them, she guessed. "You better be nice to me, Flyboy. I might just leave you lost and alone down here."

"Like you wou—" Onasi cut off mid-syllable, blinked down at her. " _Flyboy?"_

The sight of her crooked grin pulled Onasi's lips into a snarl.

They followed another building all the way to the bottom, though it didn't go very far — this one ended on the concourse level just below them. She led them through another building, another, another, descending ever further. Slowly, the environment around them changed. The lighting grew worse, pleasant yellow light meant to simulate the sun substituted with harsh white glowpanels and brilliantly colorful argon lights, twisted into enticing shapes and figures and slogans. Polished wood and gleaming tile and chrome vanished, replaced with dull ferrocrete and durasteel. The air grew warmer, enough sweat started slipping down her back, humidity turning it thick, tangs of pungent organic waste and acrid industrial byproducts scratching at her nose. The people changed, their clothes simpler, dirtier, personal weapons more and more common. When Onasi bumped into a particularly shifty-looking Kadas'sa'Nikto she almost thought a fist fight would break out, barely managed to talk their way out of it.

Also, it turned out she spoke Nikto. She couldn't even summon surprise at this point. Though she was starting to wonder exactly how many languages she had in her head. How many languages could a person learn, anyway? There must be an upper limit somewhere, the human brain only had so many neurons.

After at least an hours' descent, she stepped out of yet another lift — this one rattling a bit, one glowpanel flickering — and took a glance around. The place looked like it'd once been the lobby of an office building of some kind, but it'd obviously gone to seed at some point in the past, likely centuries ago. The walls and floor were granite, pitted and patched, blackened here and there from blaster hits, crumbling furniture and half-disassembled machinery and refuse scattered around. There were people about, likely residents, the majority dressed in mismatched clothes that were little better than rags, walking purposefully through the open space in and out of doors and lifts, avoiding eye contact with each other. A pack of people, armed and armored, were reclined in what looked like the remains of a fountain, laughing and passing around a bottle. Past the foggy transparisteel there was another concourse, she could make out the snarled wrecks of two swoop bikes from here, the grey walls colored with graffiti.

She turned, gave Onasi a little nod. "Much better." The look of dumbfounded disbelief on his face had her chuckling. Which only made him look at her like she was completely insane.

Which, well, he wasn't wrong. She was pretty sure a conviction one's own memories were fake was considered a form of psychosis. And she couldn't even say with certainty that it  _wasn't_ psychosis — it wouldn't be unusual for a human women to develop schizophrenia at her age. She didn't  _think_  it was, she had enough reason to believe her conviction was correct, but...

Yeah, trying to not think about it.

This concourse was, in a way, both quieter and noisier than the one outside Zelka's. It was certainly dirtier and smellier, she'd expected that, but the odd contrast in sound was throwing her off more. There were fewer people around, the foot traffic so thin as to be practically nonexistent, what people there were going about their business silently, the low chatter that had filled the air on the upper levels absent. But that didn't mean it was completely quiet. Off in the distance, she could hear the clanking whine of swoop bikes, the sound shifting higher and lower as they came and went, occasionally passing just over their heads, the concourse vibrating in time with the engine, a dull pain throbbing above her ear. Some were common people, she could tell, taking advantage of the unregulated traffic lanes to get around quicker, but she started cataloging gang colors and symbols as well.

It was hardly the safest place in the world, in any other situation she might not have risked coming down this low. But they'd been down here for a few minutes now, and she hadn't seen a single Sith uniform yet. The gangs, at least, had no particular reason to target them.

Following Zelka's map, it was a tense fifteen-minute walk, both of them glancing around the shadowy concourse, hands unconsciously hanging over blasters, before they reached the cantina. She didn't go inside, slipped into the building across the street instead. As luck would have it, it happened to be a residential tower. This lobby was smaller and somewhat less trashed than the other, but just as barren. Curiously, the floor was dominated by a huge reproduction of what she was pretty sure was a gang symbol — a starburst of white lines on a deep blue circle. It vaguely reminded her of a color-inverted Bendu Wheel, she couldn't tell if that was intentional or not. This was probably gang territory, the area would be under the protection of whoever's symbol that was.

She paused at the entrance for a moment, mulling it over, before dismissing it with a shrug. Around here, chances were just about everywhere was claimed by one gang or another. This place didn't look like a warzone, at least, it would have to do.

She took them up a couple floors, stepped out into the hall. The thick carpet was stained and burned away in places, the walls scuffed, a few panels in the ceiling cracked or missing. But there weren't any corpses in the hall, the place seemed relatively quiet. Good enough. She walked down the hall, staring at one door, then another, then another, all down the hall, around a corner, another, another, another.

Finally, after walking around for a few minutes, she stopped, frowning at one apartment in particular. There was dust on the receiver, along the handle. She tried to open it, but of course it was locked. The standby light was on, so the lock was definitely powered, but she didn't have the equipment to crack it. Or the skill, honestly. They could just break it down, she guessed, but she'd like to be able to lock the door behind them. She sighed, biting at her lip.

"Oh, are we breaking into people's homes now?"

She rolled her eyes. "Don't get your knickers in twist, Onasi. It's abandoned."

"How the hell do you know that?"

She didn't dignify that with a response. There was no way she was getting through the door, but maybe... She looked up at the ceiling, and there, perfect. "You think you can get me up there?" she said, pointing to the missing ceiling panel.

"Ah..." Onasi looked up, then at her, measuring the distance and her height with his eyes. Or maybe her weight, come to think of it, as low as the ceilings were. "Sure, I think so. Why?"

"I'm gonna go through the ceiling, open the door from the other side. I'd rather not crawl up there myself, it's going to be disgusting, but I don't think you'll fit."

Onasi's eyes widened, and for a short moment he just stared, blinking at her. "Um, okay. You realize you'll probably have to cut your way in."

"That part won't be a problem."

He didn't seem to entirely believe her, but he shrugged it off. In hardly a minute, with a boost from Onasi, she was yanking herself through the hole, slipping into the narrow space above the ceiling. There wasn't very much room at all, she couldn't even get up to her hands and knees — they only kept these sorts of things in to make it easier to get to pipes and lines and vents and such, nobody actually had to go inside. That wasn't even the worst thing, it was dusty as anything, and it smelled  _awful_ , excrement and decaying corpses of vermin, she'd barely wriggled a meter in before she already felt a couple bugs crawl onto her arms. Shivering with revulsion, she pushed on anyway, pulling with her hands and shoving with her feet, forcing herself through wires and piping and such inch by inch.

Finally, she felt she'd gone far enough. It took a bit of awkward twisting to get her arm under herself and up her irritating dress, finding Annas's lightsaber. The glow of the thing was blinding, in close quarters and such darkness, but she narrowed her eyes, cut a curving line below her. She had to pass it from hand to hand a couple times, shuffle around a little to get under where she'd been laying, but she thought she almost—

With a shuddering crunch, a circle of ceiling fell out from under her, and she yelped as her head and half her torso fell with it. She flailed, the brilliant blue blade of the lightsaber nearly passing through her head, her skin clawed with fright, and she let go on instinct, the thing immediately shutting off, clattering to the floor under her. She managed to not fall forward, one of her hands finding the edge of the circle. She hung there for a brief moment, breath heavy, heart pounding in her throat.

Okay. That could have gone more smoothly.

Once her pulse had returned to normal, she awkwardly turned herself around, started lowering herself down feet-first. She wasn't tall enough to get all the way down, obviously, but the drop to the floor wasn't too bad. It took a moment fumbling around to find the lightsaber, and she switched it on again, scanned the walls. She found a light switch, filling the room with a harsh white glow. She made her way through the tiny apartment, flicking on lights as she went. The place looked abandoned, layered with dust and empty of any personal touches, even most of the furniture gone.

Eventually, she found the front door. She yanked it open, shot Onasi a grin. "Welcome home, Captain."

His exasperated frown swiftly turned amused. "I see you had fun."

She glared at him, but he just kept smirking. "Yeah, yeah. Get in here. See if you can get the lock to respond to our coms. I'm taking a bloody shower."

* * *

Her face starting to ache from how long she'd been forcing an ingratiating smile, the revulsion roiling in her throat almost painful, she sank into a respectful bow. "I thank you for your generosity, Great One."

The best way to ingratiate oneself to a Hutt, of course, was to flatter them. But that didn't mean she had to like it.

After idly wandering around the area — she was pretty sure that's what "scouting out" meant, she didn't think there was a real difference — she'd returned to the cantina across the concourse, where she and Onasi had agreed to meet before splitting up. It was a seedy little place, but she thought she actually rather liked it. The only illumination was from argon lights, twisted into the logos of various beverages, all of them intoxicating and a few she recognized as poisonous to humans, residual smoke from various inhalants both legal and illegal hanging heavy in the air, the combination turning the place into a colorful haze, the thin light almost a physical presence. Speakers in all directions were blaring what some part of her recognized as  _anachuche_ , a percussion-heavy, synthesized dance music overwhelmingly popular throughout much of the Huttese-speaking rim, so loud she vibrated with it, her chest and her head filled with something light and shivering.

If she'd had occasion to predict how she'd feel about a place like this, she'd have expected she would hate it. The fumes on the air scratching at her eyes and throat, the bodies of more beings than she could count — Hutt slave species were over-represented, she noticed, which was curious — pressing in at all sides, the noise almost overwhelming. At the very least, she'd have thought she'd be getting a headache from her barely-healed concussion. But, to her own surprise, it made her feel... It made her feel  _alive_. The sheer energy of the place, surrounding her, enveloping her, she was twitching with the urge to move, shivers running all down her back and arms, it took conscious effort to keep herself from grinning.

It was strange. But she thought she liked it.

When they'd been making plans earlier, some part of her had known a cantina like this would be neutral territory — no one gang would have claimed it, and they'd try to keep any violence away by mutual agreement. But, she'd learned, after taking a quick peek around, it  _wasn't_  entirely neutral...but in a way sort of was. It'd only taken a muttered question to a passing Klatooinian to confirm the cantina, or at least part of it, functioned as what passed as a local office for the Exchange. She hadn't been able to stop her lip from curling in a scowl. The Exchange... Well, she didn't like the Exchange.

Not that she was entirely sure how she knew  _anything_  about an underground spice- and slave-trading cartel slowly spreading across the rim, but by this point she had stopped even being confused when her brain shit happened.

Despite her feelings on the matter, she'd decided to approach the local representative. Surprisingly, a Hutt. They weren't known for tolerating second string. She'd managed to hold her gorge through the conversation, but it was a near thing on a couple points — she'd suggested she might be looking for work, and she was  _very_  much aware what "acquisitions" was supposed to mean.

For a moment, the realization that slavery existed on Taris had filled her with an throat-clenching, frigid rage she couldn't quite explain. The practice was horrid, of course, but...

In the end, she'd gotten little useful information from the Hutt. (He'd only been willing to tell her so much without compensation.) There was currently a gang war going on in the area, the biggest fishes in the sea the Black Vulkars and the Hidden Beks. The latter rang a very dull bell of recognition in her head, but she couldn't place the name. By the sound of it, the Black Vulkars were likely to emerge victorious in time.

And by the way the Hutt praised their leader as a  _reasonable_ ,  _pragmatic_  sort of person, she got the feeling that was unfortunate.

Other than that, nothing was really news. Darth Malak himself was in orbit, come to chastise the local governor, which she'd already known. A Republic fleet had been crushed, Sith soldiers sweeping the lower levels for survivors, yes, yes. The increased Sith presence down here had only kicked up the violence, their patrols could hardly get anywhere before they were torn apart by swoop gangs or even random Tarisian citizens. (Taris had joined the Sith voluntarily, but the decision was still very controversial.) She might have guessed that would happen, but it was actually good news: it was likely the Sith hadn't managed to find Bastila.

Of course, that didn't mean the smug little chit was still alive down here. Even if she'd survived the crash itself, there were still the gangs and the Exchange and the environment itself to contend with. She was a Jedi, but even Jedi could get unlucky.

There didn't seem to be anything else the Hutt was willing to tell her. With a few last disgusting pleasantries, she turned around to step back into the central taproom. Wandering, searching for either Onasi or an empty table, she felt her eyes drift toward the game tables. It'd occurred to her, they would be needing money. They were seriously under-equipped for the task at hand. Not to mention somehow getting two of the most recognizable Republic war heroes off a Sith-controlled planet, that wasn't going to be cheap. Also, well, food, she liked being able to eat. Zelka had been generous, but the handful of credits they had wouldn't carry them very far.

There was a sabaac tournament tomorrow. They had  _barely_  enough credits to buy in.

Onasi would take some convincing.

He didn't seem to be here at the moment, so she had at least some time to figure out how exactly she was going to talk him into letting her literally gamble with all their money. Picking a seat along the outside of the circular central room, she slid into a seat, pulled out her datapad, and settled in to wait.

After some time paging through news and information nodes on the holonet, she was startled out of her distraction by a raised voice, cutting over the music from only a table away. "—back off, bug-eyes! Your breath smells like bantha shit."

She blinked, straightened in her seat. Sitting at a table just to her side was a Twi'lek, round bluish face twisted into a dismissive scowl. Where the table didn't obscure her, there were a pair of goggles pushed up on her forehead, by the way the lenses glinted in the light clearly more than simple protection, heavy black synthleather shrouding her shins and her shoulders. Couldn't see her belt from here, but there was a band around her wrist, a glint of metal visible. Spikes and picks, most like. Street kid, petty thief and slicer, was the feeling dropping into her head, but a successful one, the combination of suspicious hardware and rather clean and whole clothes suggested as much.

The odd thing was, the girl was  _young_. It could be hard to judge ages with alien species sometimes, but she'd put her around thirteen or so — which, since Twi'leks matured more or less at the same pace humans did, was a bit young to be hanging out in a seedy cantina by herself.

The concerning thing was, two Rodians were flanking her at the table, hovering malevolently over her. Thick synthleather slit and dirty, heavy blasters at their hips, one of them had a nasty burn across the side of his head. Thugs, clearly. She noticed a symbol on one of their sleeves, three black claw marks torn through a red circle — Vulkars.

She reached a hand under the table, slowly, slipped her blaster out of the holster.

"Little girl need lesson in manners!" The Rodian's Huttese was broken, the accent from his native language heavy.

The girl snorted. "That's funny, coming from Vulkar gutter trash."

"Friend and me, maybe we teach—"

"In the middle of Javyar's? Go ahead."

She frowned. The girl was taunting the Vulkars, trying to get them to break the neutrality of the cantina. (Or just mocking them for starting a confrontation somewhere they couldn't finish it, either way.) That suggested she was involved. With what she understood of the area, that meant the girl was probably a Bek. She might have to reconsider her feeling the Beks were less scummy than the Vulkars — she doubted she would see eye to eye with any gang leader who thought it acceptable to recruit children.

But she brushed the thought off, moved her blaster over the lip of the table anyway, flicked it on. She doubted the girl was a totally innocent party, but she was still a child. She wouldn't just sit back and do nothing. It wasn't in her.

Apparently.

She needn't have worried. Just as things looked to be a step away from violence, one of the Rodians even reaching for his blaster, a towering mass of shaggy auburn fur collapsed into a seat at the table, a food-laden tray falling with a clatter. She twitched — was that a  _Wookiee_? She hadn't thought Wookiees ever left Kashyyyk.

...Had she ever even heard of Wookiees  _at all_? Until a datacard's worth of knowledge of their culture suddenly dropped into her head a couple seconds ago, she hadn't even known they existed.

This brain damage thing was really starting to get old.

"Eating  _again_ , Zee? Honestly, we had lunch just a couple hours ago."

The Wookiee opened his mouth, letting out an odd howl of broad vowels broken with uvular and glottal fricatives and trills. She wasn't at all surprised to find she understood every word. "You're much littler than me, Sister."

She blinked.  _Sister_. Eyes flicking to the Twi'lek girl, she nodded to herself. Wookiee honor family. Right. Curious he was acknowledging someone of a different species, but fine.

"Oh, sure, just go and throw that in my face."

"Our problem not with Wookiee!" The Rodians had jumped harder than she had at the much larger being showing up, backed off the table a few steps. But she noticed their hands were still hovering near their blasters.

The look of affectionate exasperation vanished from the girl's face as she turned back to the Rodians, scowling again. "You got a problem with me, you got a problem with Big Zee here. Ain't that right?"

"I'm trying to eat. I can threaten red-sun-slime for you later."

Zee might not be trying, but apparently to those who didn't understand it Shyriiwook was threatening enough on its own. Practically shaking in their boots, one of the Rodians squeaking something about this not being over, and the both of them fled, heading straight for the doors out to the concourse.

Shaking her head to herself, she switched the blaster off, started returning it to its holster. But she'd moved too slowly — the girl saw it. A frown crossed her face, head cocking a bit to the side, lekku twitching with curiosity. She leaned closer to the Wookiee, muttered something too quiet to hear from here, getting a grunt in return. Then the girl stood.

A brilliant grin on her face, the girl walked toward her table, her swagger almost impressive given she didn't really have the hips for it yet. Before she could hardly blink, the girl was seated across from her, an energetic, friendly sort of light in her eyes. "Hi! I haven't seen you around before. You new around here?" The girl had the high, thin voice of someone still half a child, bright with eagerness she could almost taste.

She blinked. A quick glance around, but it didn't look like Onasi was here yet. Eh, fuck it. "You could say that."

"Well, just consider me and Zaalbar the welcome committee!" The girl frowned, glanced over her shoulder. "Uh, just me, I guess. Zee is pretty serious about his food."

"No kidding." This Zaalbar had a plate of...something reconstituted, couldn't even guess from here, but his head was bowed halfway to the table, sucking down his meal with hardly any pause for breath. Table manners were something of a foreign concept to Wookiees. Casting the thought off, she turned back to the girl. "He's Zaalbar, and you are...?"

"Oh, sorry. It's Mission, Mission Vao." The girl paused a second, seemingly just to grin at her for a second. "I saw you pulling a blaster on that slime-face's back, you know. I didn't need the help, but thanks for the backup anyway."

"No problem." She nearly said something about how she couldn't do nothing when a couple thugs were picking on a little girl, but she had the feeling that would be taken the wrong way. "I was about two seconds from shooting the bloke, actually. That might have gotten a little awkward."

The girl paused for a moment, mouthing  _bloke_  to herself. Her accent would sound a little weird to someone from out here. "You talk funny. Where are you from, anyway?"

"Shelkonwa. It's an Alderaanian colony." Even as she said it, she felt herself frowning. Now that she thought about it, she didn't think her accent sounded particularly Alderaanian. It was hard to tell for sure — on top of the difficulty in picking apart her own accent while she was speaking, the dialects of the human core were rather homogenous to begin with. She didn't centralize her unaccented vowels the way most speakers of Basic did, or at least not quite as much. And how she tended to monophthongize or break more complex vowels, and spirantize affricates... If she had to guess, she'd peg it for something on the Alsakani–Shawken axis.

Which still left her with dozens of possibilities for her homeworld. But she was starting to wonder if she'd ever even been on Shelkonwa before. She  _remembered_  Shelkonwa, of course, she'd lived there for half her life, but...

She shook the thought off. She didn't want to think about that.

"Alderaan, huh. I hear it's pretty there." There was a faint note of skepticism on Mission's voice, as though someone had told her about forests and mountains and rivers before, and she couldn't entirely believe such things existed, especially on a world as old as Alderaan. She must have grown up here.

"It is, I guess. Such things are a matter of personal opinion." Herself, she'd never felt the awe so many people seemed to get from certain examples of the natural world. It was nice, she guessed, but it was just...there. Of course, she didn't have a high opinion of visual art either. Not what she preferred to use her eyes for. "How about you? You're obviously not from Ryloth."

Mission frowned at her. "How can you tell?"

"Your accent's wrong. The local Basic is your first language."

"You can tell that just listening to someone? Far out." Mission paused for a moment, her head tipping to the side again, sending one of her lekku sliding against her shoulder. "You don't really seem the type. To be hanging around here, I mean."

She felt a wry smile twitching at her lips. "You could say I've had a significant change in fortunes recently."

A curious look crossed Mission's face, but she didn't voice whatever she was thinking. "Well, if you ever need help finding your way around, just give me a call. You got a com?"

Without a thought, she dug out her com, and swapped codes with the strangely friendly little girl. Which might be a mistake, she realized, when her brain started up again. They weren't going to be here long, and she hardly knew the girl, and... Well, it generally wasn't wise to give a stranger who obviously dabbled in slicing a direct link into a wirelessly broadcasting bit of tech you carried with you everywhere. It was a basic security precaution to keep com codes private, in fact, one of those rules  _everyone_  knew. But she'd done it anyway, without pausing to think.

She couldn't explain it. It'd just... It'd seemed like the right thing to do.

Shaking off the tingles along her arms, the vague feeling of unease, she shot Mission a teasing smile. "I'm to take it you know the area like the back of your hand, then."

The girl's face broke into a grin again. "No doubt! Me and Zee have been here forever, we know everyone around here. If you need to find anything or anyone, I know where it is — and how to get there without some slimeface blowing your head off. Though, if you're  _really_  new you should probably talk to Gadon. He can set you up with a place to stay, find you some work if you like."

"Who's Gadon?"

"You really are new, everyone knows who Gadon Thek is. He leads the Hidden Beks."

There was another odd sense of familiarity, that she'd heard the name before, but she still couldn't place it. Since she'd had a similar moment with the Beks a while ago, it was probably even the same Gadon Thek. "No, I'm fine, I don't need a place to stay." Explaining she'd broken into an apartment in a building under Bek protection would be a bad idea. "How does someone like you wind up falling in with a swoop gang anyway?" By  _someone like you_ , she was referring to her age, but she was trying to avoid drawing attention to that. She'd seen the way Mission had scowled when the thugs had called her  _little girl_.

By the brightness of Mission's smile, she didn't notice the subtext. "Oh, I've been with the Beks forever. The gangs aren't all the same, you know." Or, maybe she  _had_  caught the subtext, just the  _swoop gangs are bad_  part instead. "It's Vulkars going around shooting anyone who looks at them funny like psychos, not the Beks. Gadon's a good man, he looks out for people."

She made a mental note to not speak ill of Gadon and the Beks too directly. It sounded like Mission had practically been raised by them. Though, that the girl was biased didn't necessarily mean she was wrong — it wasn't unusual, in places like this where government power broke down somewhat, for the common citizenry to fill the vacuum. Sometimes, the gangs that took over were violent, corrupt thugs, but others provided for and protected their people when the state couldn't or wouldn't. The former were more common than the latter, but the latter still happened.

Of course, she wasn't taking it for granted the Beks were the latter kind just because some random teenager thought well of them, but she'd keep an open mind, at least.

For some minutes, they just talked. Or, if she were being honest, Mission interrogated her about whatever came to mind. What planets she'd been to before, what they were like, what the people there were like, what exactly did linguistics professors do with their time, what even was  _linguistics_ , did she follow swoop racing at all, on and on and on. She shouldn't really be doing this, she should be avoiding any sort of personal interactions with locals, but...

Stang, she just couldn't help it. The kid was just so precious. Such a cocky little shit, with a blaster on one hip and weighed down with who knew what illicit equipment, talking casually about poverty and sickness and repression and violence, but always smiling, a light in her eyes she couldn't help but find...

It was nice. Somehow, despite not being able to remember, she'd known it'd been a long,  _long_  time since she'd been around anyone so...so  _happy_.

She shouldn't encourage the girl, but she just couldn't help herself.

So, of course, Onasi had to show up and ruin it.

She and Mission had been talking for some time, she hadn't been keeping track, when he came walking up to the table. Through the rainbow haze of the cantina, it took her a moment to recognize him. "You have me wandering around a slum one misstep away from open war, and here you are chatting up some kid?"

The shift in Mission's face from grin to scowl was so quick it was almost impressive. "Watch who you're calling  _kid_ , you withered old geezer!"

Her eyes drifting closed for a second, she let out a thin sigh. She knew, instantly, there was no way these two would ever get along. "Mind giving us the table, Mission? I have some business to discuss with my friend here."

Mission gave her a skeptical look, as though she couldn't quite believe her new friend, who'd she'd only known for an hour, could really be friends with this arseface, who she'd only known for a couple seconds. She shrugged. "Sure thing, Cina. We should be checking in with Zaerdra about now anyway. Give me a call sometime." The girl popped up to her feet, something hidden in her belt clinking a bit. "Come on, Zee, let's go." And the two were off, banter about mealtimes and portion sizes quickly fading as they wandered away.

Onasi sank heavily into the seat she'd vacated, shooting a suspicious glance at their retreating backs. She couldn't help the feeling she'd just traded down, so far as conversational partners went, but she wasn't exactly in a position to be choosy about the company she kept. "Did you actually do any recon, or did you just sit in the cantina drinking and chatting up the locals?"

She sniffed — he should be glad she hadn't been drinking, she'd nearly gone up to the bar to order something. The only thing that had stopped her was the half-faded knowledge that alcohol and head trauma didn't mix. She brought her datapad out of stand-by, in a few seconds had her annotated map of the area transmitted to Onasi. "It's not my fault you're slow, Flyboy. I got here over an hour ago, questioned the Hutt over there for a while before Mission got friendly. Did you know the Exchange are big on Taris? They operate out in the open, even, agents in bloody cantinas."

Partway through sending his own map, Onasi twitched, glanced around the cantina, a sudden razor of concern about him. "I heard some thug named Davik runs the syndicate around here, but I didn't realize it was so bad. They own the cantina?  _This_  cantina?"

"I don't know if they own it, but they certainly use it as a contact and recruiting point." Her lips turned up in a dark smile. "Zax was quite open about asking if I wanted to collect bounties for the Exchange."

The glare on Onasi's face was so cold it could freeze a blaster shot in midair. "You told him no, of course."

"Of course. I have no intention of running errands for a cartel of slavers and murderers." Hot annoyance flared in her chest at his look of relief — honestly, who did he think she was? "I did manage to get some information out of him, but it's not good news. This planet is swimming with Sith, swoop gangs, and the fucking  _Exchange_. It's unlikely we'll find Shan first."

"Maybe she'll be the one finding us."

She fought the urge to roll her eyes and completely failed. The confidence some people had in Jedi was just so absurd. They were mortal beings like everyone else. "If the Sith captured or killed her, they'd be bragging about it on the net. Since they haven't, and seeing as she didn't show up at Zelka's, her pod must have fallen rather further into the city than ours did. Who knows how many buildings and walkways and such it hit on the way down? Shan would have been rattled around in there something awful, I wouldn't be surprised if she's hurt nearly as badly as I was. If someone stumbled across her while she was still out of it..." She shrugged. "Even Jedi can get unlucky."

Onasi winced, a hand rising to rub at the side of his face. Apparently, the same thought had occurred to him, but he'd been in denial.

"This isn't going to be an easy job, Onasi. Someone is going to get to her before we do. We need to find out who, then we need to break her out. That's going to require contacts, and guns. Lots of guns. Possibly mercs, if we can afford them. But we can't afford them. We can't afford any of this. Just feeding ourselves will see us drained of cash inside the week."

"Yeah, I know." The frustration on his voice was clear, and for a second despair fell over him, face closing up as he slumped into himself. But it lasted only a second before he rallied, straightening in his chair, shoulders back and firm, eyes glinting with determination. And there he went being handsome again, that was really quite annoying. "I don't suppose any money-making opportunities jumped out at you while you were looking around?"

She felt the smirk spread across her face.

"I'm going to hate this idea, aren't I?"

She didn't answer. She just smirked all the wider.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Argon lights —  _Throwing a curveball at you, like I do. Making this more difficult than I have to, I know, but I'm not certain it would make sense for people in the Star Wars universe to use the same name for the same technology. The name we use is an artifact of our history — we happened to popularize the technology using neon first, but there are all sorts of gasses that work just as well. In fact, neon isn't even the best option, from a practical standpoint. Argon might take more energy to ionize than neon but, while neon is abundant in space, it's a very thin, light gas, light enough most of Earth's neon floated off eons ago. Argon, which is used in purple and blue "neon" lights, is roughly 519 TIMES more abundant in our atmosphere, coming in at just under one percent._
> 
>  _Presumably, the atmosphere of any planet with biospheres similar to ours would also have atmospheric argon. Earth-native life requires potassium — it's essential for proper cell function, making up about .2% of the human body — and a small percentage of potassium comes in a radioactive isotope, which happens to decay into argon. By comparing the isotopes present on Earth, it's clear the_ _ **vast**_   _majority was produced by potassium decaying over millions of years (over 99% of it, in fact). Thus, we can assume any life that is chemically anything like ours would have evolved on a world with significant amounts of argon in the atmosphere. Not only is it likely pre-spaceflight humans would have discovered argon gas-discharge lighting, but virtually every other intelligent species should have as well. It's less likely, I feel, that the use of neon in lighting would be nearly as universal._
> 
> _In the modern day, I wouldn't be surprised if most of their "argon" lights actually use synthesized krypton — it's (theoretically) easily produced with the level of tech available in Star Wars, and glows a plain white, so you just have to tint/paint the glass to easily get whatever color you want. But I'd expect them to still be called argon lights for historical reasons. Of course, it is a bit of a stretch to assume they'd still be using cold cathode gas-discharge lighting after thousands of years, but it is simple to build and comparatively efficient. People use what works._
> 
> _Yeah, I know. Can't help myself._
> 
> [smells like bantha shit] —  _If anyone's wondering, I know "poodoo" literally means_ fodder _. Cianen translates for intent, so_ shit  _is a better fit._
> 
> [she'd put her around thirteen or so] —  _Mission's canon age at the beginning of KotOR is actually fourteen. The art director has said the model for her face was a mistake, she looks too old._
> 
> [Had she  _ever_  even heard of Wookiees  _at all_?] —  _KotOR happens not long after Kashyyyk was discovered by the wider galaxy. It's quite likely the vast majority have never heard of Kashyyyk or Wookiees before._


	6. Taris — II

"What the hell is that?"

She gave Onasi an unimpressed look over her drink, his form blurred slightly by the thin haze lifting from the surface. " _Mashutso, yan-telazhi._ "

A flash of irritation crossed his face. "You know, not everyone speaks every language in the kriffing galaxy."

"Honestly, Onasi, it's just Huttese." She took a sip, the heat of it rising in her cheeks, the spiced fruitiness seeming to shoot a giddy sort of energy straight into her veins. "And there aren't words in Basic for  _mashutso_  and  _telache_  anyway. It's Hutt alcohol, basically, but with the  _telache_ , an impurity, filtered out. It's poisonous to most other species, you see."

"Alcohol? So it gets you drunk?"

She shrugged. "Sort of. I'd describe  _mashutso_  intoxication as somewhere between alcohol and gree spice, actually. But yeah." Momentarily, she wondered to herself how exactly she knew what the high from any sort of spice at all felt like. Eh.

It took Onasi a moment to regain the self-control to speak — or, at least, to speak without screaming at her in the middle of the cantina. She took another sip as she watched him gritting his teeth, smiling at him with all the innocence she could muster (which surely wasn't much). Finally, he ground out, "Is this  _really_  the time?"

A smirk twisting her lips, she said, "I can't think of a more appropriate time, really."

She probably shouldn't find the way Onasi grimaced and cursed under his breath quite so funny.

Javyar's Cantina and Gameroom was a significantly different place than they'd found it yesterday, almost unrecognizable. Flatscreens had been hung on the walls, flashing the number of open seats, tournament rules, advertisements from sponsors and the like. All the furniture orbiting the bar had been replaced, the main room instead filled with a dozen and a half holographic sabaac tables. Instead of the usual patrons, a seedy crowd composed evenly of washed-out destitutes and bristling thugs, there were dozens of participants and a few hangers-on milling about the space, drinking, chatting, brooding. They were a curious lot, representing a variety of species and classes — she saw one two-headed being she didn't recognize at all, their dress running from rags to armor to fine silk to the leathers and brilliantly dyed synthweaves of professional players.

She'd been a bit surprised, some minutes ago, when she'd recognized Mission, complete with Zaalbar looming over her shoulder, furry shoulders slumped and arms petulantly folded. The girl had an ID badge and everything. Apparently, she was playing.

She wasn't sure she liked the look of the eager smirk on Mission's face. But it really wasn't her business.

They'd gotten here about a half hour early, had maybe another five minutes until the tables were set and they could get down to it. She hadn't bothered trying to scope out the competition — there were too many of them, a hundred at least, and she'd only be playing a small fraction of them. But she'd gotten bored of waiting, and Onasi hadn't let up with his impersonation of one of Cianen's more frustrating uncles. Hence, drink.

With the way the stuff metabolized, it hardly took long at all. The first few sips were already hitting her system. Not a lot, not enough to incapacitate her, it didn't dull her senses — if anything it made her sharper. It came as a sense of eagerness, of  _possibility_ , an irresistible energy that set her foot to tapping, her face to smirking. "Relax, Flyboy. I know what I'm doing."

He frowned at her, unease clear in his eyes. " _Do_  you?"

On instinct, she opened her mouth to answer, something about  _obviously_  she did, this was her they were talking about. Then she stopped, considered it for a second. This was rather outside of her experience — Cianen had played a little sabacc with friends just for fun, but certainly nothing like this — but going about this sabaac tournament credit-making scheme of hers she'd been possessed with an unshakeable sense of confidence she couldn't explain. She'd just been rolling with it, honestly. "It appears I do, yes."

That didn't reassure him at all, of course.

They spent the next few minutes in uncomfortable silence, on his end at least. He sat there pouting, glaring at her now and again, while she sat apart, watching the crowd and slowly sipping at her drink. By the time the tables were finally announced, he gave up, said he would be in one of the showrooms until it was over. He clearly expected her to be eliminated quickly, throwing away what little money they had. Which was really quite silly of him, he'd been there when she'd cleaned out all his pilots, again and again and again.

All of them excluding Ferlip, anyway. She  _would_  say he had a  _nenthar_ 's own luck, if he weren't floating in a bacta tank back at Zelka's, deep in a coma he'd likely never wake from. Cast a shadow on the thought, that.

Before long, she found herself sitting with seven other beings, plus an Exchange employee serving as dealer. (She mostly managed to not scowl at the sight of the sunburst-and-dagger insignia on his lapel.) The table flickered into life, play areas demarcated with glowing lines, a colorful illusion of chips appearing before each of them. The dealer gave a threatening grumble about following the fucking rules or else, a small ante was drawn from all of them, and the game started.

Resisting the urge to glare at the dealer, she rearranged her cards so one was atop the other, instead of randomly splayed across her section of the table — there was really no reason to throw them around like that. She bent the near, narrow end of the flexiscan cards up, just enough to make out the numbers before dropping them again. Seven of flasks and the Wheel, for a balance of three pos. This hand was going to be awkward.

The betting went around once, after a second of waffling she decided to fork over the fifty creds needed to stay in, despite her doubts about her hand. At this early stage, it didn't really matter that much. The dealer threw out another round of cards, she slipped it to the top of her stack before tipping up a corner. Six of staves.

Hmm.

She looked out at the table, taking in the cards other people were locking, and barely held back a snort. A human woman halfway around the table had locked in an Idiot, the Ithorian across from her had Void and a seven of sabers — she had no idea what the woman was thinking, and it looked like the Ithorian, locked in at twenty-five neg, was hoping to draw or shift up into a win. And they were the first two to lock, the rest were still thinking.

She hadn't realized there would be bloody amateurs in this tournament.

Locking in the Wheel and the six, she sat through the round of betting, participated only so much as she needed to to stay in. She was slightly surprised when the Nikto next to her folded. Before the first shift, even. Okay. As soon as the betting was over, the table flashed, signaling the shift.

Once it was over, she tipped up the corner of her card — and held back a wince. Master of sabers. That didn't help her at all. When it came to her turn to ask for another card, she waved the dealer off. She didn't miss the flicker on a couple faces, a rather seedy-looking Devaronian to her right, the Fool woman. She let herself smirk.

When the betting came around, two men who were obviously gang members glaring as they bet and raised, she raised for the first time in the hand. Not a lot, but some, bringing the round up to three-fifty. The Fool woman folded flat out at that, but the rest stayed in, despite the clear hesitation stalling the Devaronian's fingers for a couple seconds. Then came another locking phase.

The Fool woman glared when she didn't lock anything in. She smirked again.

The shift hit again, she tipped up the corner of her card. Six of coins, putting her at twenty-two pos. Perfect. But she kept the satisfaction off her face, narrowed her eyes just for a second before relaxing again.

The best strategy, of course, was to make yourself as expressionless as possible. Faking tells was all well and good for the first few hands, but eventually the others would catch on, it only worked for so long. Well, no, the  _best_  strategy was to find some way to taunt a few people on the table if you could, try to get them angry. Angry people were stupid people. But, yes, faking tells didn't work past the first few hands, but it  _did_  work the first few hands, so it was still useful.

And the Devaronian jumped on it like an idiot, immediately betting five hundred. Which, as small as the buy-in was, meant anyone calling would have sunk half their creds on the first hand. Most of the table realized that, all of them except the Ithorian folded. Still didn't know what he (she?) was thinking, but okay. It was only the three of them in now, actually.

Instead of taking another card, she threw down her last one, locking herself in. Half the table glared at her. She just smiled back, sipping at her mashutso. They both stayed in through the next shift, but the Devaronian ended up way over, his last draw still putting him at twenty-six pos, and the Ithorian managed to draw up to twenty neg.

In a few minutes, she'd just managed to — she glanced at the count next to her illusory chips — a little less than double their money. Even after the house took their share, she was up a thousand credits. And Onasi had been so insistent this was a terrible idea.

If she knew where the cameras were, she'd be smirking at them right now.

The rest of the game went more or less along the same lines. There were a few hands she took a hit on. She'd always stay in until at least the first shift, but sometimes it went badly enough she decided to fold instead of sink more money into a questionable hand. It didn't really matter though, her wins were more than making up for a few minor losses here and there. The other players were bankrupted one by one, until there were only two of them left.

This tournament was rather peculiar in that, once a table had been reduced to two players, they played against each other, but both were automatically all-in. So, really, they weren't playing against each other so much as they were playing against the shift. For a moment, she thought she was going to overdraw, and lose the first round — not that it mattered, she had  _far_  more credits than he did, she'd have another chance. But, at the last moment, in a shift even she would call simple luck, her nine of coins became the Queen of Air and Darkness, and she had twenty-three. And that was that.

See, Onasi? A single game of sabaac and she'd already multiplied their money by seven. Of course, it wasn't money she got to  _keep_ , it stayed in the tournament, but that was only two more games. Even if she just made it to the last table, only needed to win one measly little game, she would still make them tens of thousands of credits. And since Taris was apparently short on decent sabaac players, that shouldn't even be hard.

Maybe he should just listen to her next time.

* * *

Giving the girl a hard look across the table, she set down the Mortifying and the ace of sabers, transforming her pathetic eight pos into a perfect twenty-three neg. Mission's bright grin flickered, a shade of annoyance creasing the smooth, deep blue skin of her forehead.

Mission had no right at all to be annoyed. She was cheating.

It'd taken her a while to figure out what was going on. Meeting Mission at the final table was a bit of a surprise, and there had been a dark cast to her smirk that had immediately set her on edge. Most of the time, it was subtle, she took care to not advertise it. Whatever slice she'd done was very minimal. She smoothly sailed into hands in the twenties more frequently than was statistically likely, but sometimes it just worked out like that. A few hands, when Mission narrowly edged someone out by a point, she'd be struck with this odd… She wasn't certain how to describe it, really. Like eyes on the back her head, her spine tingling, an electricity in the air she couldn't explain.

Of course, Mission had to remove all doubt when she shifted herself into an Idiot's Array. That  _could_  have been explained by simple luck — if she hadn't given another player, who'd managed to get a twenty-three on the deal, a tauntingly smug little smirk.

The kid might be skilled enough to slice the table, but she wasn't mature enough to hide it very well.

Once she'd figured out what was happening, she'd only stayed in hands she thought could easily put her above twenty, folding out of mediocre hands she might have run with otherwise. It'd kept her in this long. She had won this hand, just barely, sealing the fate of a human man with garish taste in clothes — probably thought himself rakish, but honestly he just hurt to look at. With a dramatic, good-natured sigh, the man stood, leaving just the two of them.

Which meant she'd be playing against the shift with a cheater. And Mission had more credits than her.

She was going to lose on the next hand.

Practically speaking, that wasn't too big of a deal. She'd made it to second place at least, which guaranteed her a quarter million credits. (And that was  _after_  the house's cut, she'd checked the fine print.) But she might have gotten half a mil instead if this cheeky little shit weren't cheating.

It was quite frustrating, but she was trying to not let it bother her.

The room was empty at this point, just her, Mission, Zaalbar looming behind her, and the dealer, the audience and the eliminated players relegated to the various showrooms and bars scattered across the five levels of this tower run by the cantina. In almost eerie silence, the stone-faced Exchange grunt passed out four cards and then another two, all face-up, starting what would probably be the last hand of the tournament.

She openly frowned at her hand in front of her. Endurance, three of staves, nine of flasks — which could be two pos or fourteen neg. A glance up showed the girl was locking in the master of flasks and the Queen of Air and Darkness, holding back her ten of staves to be shifted out, putting her at twelve/sixteen neg. She was obviously aiming for a negative hand, using the Queen to give her a bit of wiggle room. (Despite its low point value, the Queen was a very valuable card for just that reason.)

She had to assume Mission would cheat herself into a twenty-two or twenty-three neg. The smartest thing to do, then, was to aim for a positive hand. Her hand wasn't perfect for it but, if she were lucky, she could win outright or at least force a split. The table was stacked against her, but she could try, at least. She locked in Endurance and the three, held back the nine.

Mission's third card was shifted into a ten of sabers — with a bright grin, Mission immediately pushed the card forward, locking in at twenty-two neg.

Her own card shifted into...into Justice. She blinked, glanced between their hands for a second, probability figures running through her head. Then she slid Justice forward, locking in at 6/22 pos. She beckoned the dealer with a finger, not breaking eye contact with Mission. "Card, please."

Mission's grin flickered, her eyes narrowing. The same math she'd figured was surely running through the girl's head. With Mission at twenty-neg, she needed twenty-three to win — if she figured the house rules correctly, if she tied with one more card, but also one more face card, they'd split the pot and go again. Twenty-three neg was too far away to get with a single card, so she needed twenty-two or twenty-three pos.

But, the trick was, like the Queen, Endurance could be either positive or negative, at the player's choice. If it were positive, she would win with the Idiot or the Word or a one of coins or staves. If it were negative, she would tie with Temperance or a master of coins or staves, and win with an ace of coins or staves. None of those cards were in use, all nine options were in play. Not only was she drawing a new card, but there were two more shifts she could use as well. That meant she had three chances to get it.

Assuming she'd done the math in her head correctly, she had about a one in four chance of at least staying in for another hand. Twenty-one out of seventy-six, yes, that was about a quarter.

The dealer set down her new card. Five of flasks, no good. "Shift."

As the dealer moved to key the shift, Mission brought her hands together, one thumb rubbing at the center of her palm. The fingers, though, slipped a little into her sleeve.

She glared at the girl, who looked to be trying to hold in a smirk.

The shift gave her a four of staves. She didn't expect it to do any good, with this cocky little shit cheating, but she called for the last shift anyway. The Star.

And that was that, she'd lost.

The flatscreens were blaring something or another, one of the hosts blabbing off, a few patrons already starting to sweep into the main room, but she ignored all that. Before she'd even made it to her feet, Mission had sprung up, wrapping her arms around her Wookiee friend and giggling. Zaalbar's face was pinched a little with exasperation, but there was still warmth there, sparkling in his dark eyes. He even picked her up and spun her around a couple times, roaring congratulations in her ears, Mission's ecstatic screeching bouncing off the walls.

She couldn't help smiling a little at the sight. Of course, if she hadn't come away with a quarter mil, multiplying their credits by a factor of a hundred in a single day, it might have been a different story. She might have been too annoyed to enjoy the sight of their innocent, adolescent happiness.  _Innocent_ might not be quite the right word, but she still found them oddly...precious, she guessed.

Before whatever had happened to her, she  _really_  must not have been around happy people very much.

She would definitely have to rub Onasi's nose in this, though. He'd been  _so convinced_  she would ruin everything. A quarter mil should be more than enough to equip themselves however they needed, possibly even bribe their way off the planet. They were all set, and she hadn't even needed to commit any misdemeanors along the way.

She wondered if she could get Onasi to punch her in her own smug face. Probably not, he did seem like the never-hit-a-woman type…

Eventually, Mission and Zaalbar were done celebrating, the girl still glowing with a brilliant grin. Before the tournament officials could make their way over, start the process of handing out everyone's winnings, she slid up to them. "Nice playing, Mission."

The girl stalled a moment, blinking at her hand once or twice before taking it. "Thanks, Cina, you too. No hard feelings, right?"

"Of course." She clenched tighter on Mission's hand, jerked down and back. The girl stumbled forward a step with a low yelp, putting their faces next to each other's, her nose a shade away from the girl's  _tchin_...which was apparently what right-side lekku were called in Ryl, she hadn't known she knew that. Muttering low under her breath, "Maybe you should be more careful doing that in future." She clasped Mission's shoulder for a moment, emulating the gesture common in many human cultures for their audience. "Someone might take it rather more personally than I am." Then she let go, backed off a step, smiling back at the girl as though nothing were amiss.

A little bit of the light had gone out of Mission's smile, looking a little shaken, her lekku twitching just noticeably. Apparently, she hadn't expected to be caught. She nodded, one hand flicking under her chin, across her chest.  _Thanks, I'll be careful._

She blinked. She knew Republic Standard Sign Language. Huh.

Wait, forget her own absurd language abilities for a second, how exactly did some random Twi'leki teenager in lower city Taris pick up RSL anyway? That was—

On, no, never mind. There were plenty of alien species who had just as much trouble distinguishing the sounds in Basic listening to it, just as there were plenty who were biologically incapable of speaking it — RSL was often used by diverse communities in the Republic, usually alongside spoken Basic. (There were even a number of standard workarounds for species with unusual hand morphologies, it was a whole thing.) Not to mention, in poorer communities like this one medical interventions for deafness would be less accessible than they were elsewhere. It actually made perfect sense.

Cianen  _had_  taken a course on signing subcultures in the Republic back when she was an undergraduate. Which was how she knew all that. She'd never actually studied  _using_  it, though, that was still new.

Or, old, technically, when she thought about it.

— _much you can learn about a people from their language—_

— _not the point, when it—_

— _aggressive, I know, but—_

— _ence of who they are far outweighs—_

A warm, dull pain swam into existence, just above and in front of her ear. She shook her head to herself, the cantina swirling around her, just for a second before everything snapped back into clarity, the pain fading away. She'd decided thinking too directly about her brain stuff was a bad idea. Right.

* * *

_His sense of her on the Force was undeniable. Lesami was and always had been one of those people who were simply impossible to miss. He wondered, sometimes, how it was the Jedi had found her so late. Folded within the fabric of life around him, she was a wellspring of power that could not be ignored. A burner hot to the touch, a light the eyes stung to look at._

_It was one on the list of reasons the Masters were so hard on her. She made the Masters nervous. Alek thought he'd noticed before even Lesami had._

_Really, with how she burned in the Force, it hadn't been hard to track her down at all. He simply wished he'd found her somewhere else. Opening his eyes showed him the same scene that'd been before him when he'd closed them — the noise and squalor of the lower city, the impoverished, lawless depths of Coruscant cast into almost cartoonish color by hundreds of argon lights, rainbow light and shadow. The concourse was crowded, the few people taking notice of him looking at his robes, the lightsaber at his waist with open mistrust and contempt, hostility rising in black spikes all around him._

_And Lesami was right in front of him, only a dozen or so meters away. In an establishment advertising itself as a gameroom and bar. His impression of her light and sharp and, and…_

_..._ happy  _wasn't quite the right word. He recognized the feeling, yes, it was that same smug contentment that thrummed out of her through the Force whenever she solved some puzzle or another, bested someone in a duel, pulled off some new feat of semi-illicit sorcery —_ why  _Master Kreia was teaching her that stuff he'd never understand._

_Alek had the very uncomfortable feeling that Lesami had snuck down to the lower city to play sabaac. And she was winning._

_He took in a long breath, the air tainted with the acrid and sweet mix of industrial pollution and rotting garbage, then let it out in a long, tolerant sigh. Shuffling his uneasiness into the back of his head, Alek walked into the tight shadows of the building._

_The place was dense with sentients of a dozen species, the air thick with smoke, turned into a multicolored haze by thin argon lighting, the pounding music and conversation in too many languages to pick apart. But through all of it, it was easy to pick out Lesami. Even if she didn't set the Force afire with her very presence, he'd be able to find her._

_He tried to ignore the way his mouth went dry when he did._

_Lesami, he knew, tended to avoid presenting herself as a Jedi during her frequent forays outside of the Temple. People treated Jedi differently, she'd said when he'd asked after it. Normal people see Jedi as heroic pseudo-deities, or delusional hermits, or superpowered tyrants, exactly what depended on their personal opinion of the Order. But they always acted different around Jedi, and not in a good way. They were always on their guard, waiting for a miracle or a threat, they could never relax._

_To be honest, Alek had never really thought of that before. He and Master Zhar had had a long conversation about how Jedi should go about interacting with common people, and he still wasn't sure who was right._

_He knew Lesami got up to all sorts of things out in the city a Jedi really shouldn't be involving herself in. For the most part, he'd tried to just not think about it. This was the first time he'd taken it upon himself to track her down. So he hadn't expect to find...well,_ this _._

 _Lesami was sitting at one of the sabaac tables, reclining back in her chair, chin propped up on a hand. And she_ certainly  _wasn't presenting herself as a Jedi. The hair on one side of her head had been pulled out of her face into a braid, running tight against her skin before drooping down behind her ear, the other side let loose, a nest of curls and spikes, the multicolored lights flashing off black. She'd put something around her eyes, shadows glittering silver every time she blinked, her lips a deep red, he knew her face too well to think that was natural. And she wasn't wearing robes, oh no, shimmersilk in purple and black, he was trying not to look, the dress was too…_

_Well. By this point he was very familiar with how distracting Lesami could be._

_The look of her had him frozen in shock for a moment, blinking like a juvenile idiot, before his brain finally kicked into drive again. What the_ hell  _was she doing? Honestly, some of the things Lesami did sometimes, he had no idea how she got away with—_

 _Who was he kidding, he knew exactly how she got away with it. He_ should  _be wondering why her Master permitted her...eccentricities. He was starting to wonder if Master Kreia wasn't just as crazy as the whispers and subtle looks suggested._

_But he couldn't just leave her here. He jerked into motion, pushing through the morass of sentients to stand over her. "I suppose I should have expected something like this."_

_Lesami tipped her head back against her chair, looking straight up at him, her face split with a crooked grin. He tried not to notice the angle down her dress he was getting. "Hello there, Master Jedi. Can I help you with something?" There was something on her voice, something subtle but sharp, he wasn't sure how to read it._

_He opened his mouth, but before he could say anything there was a harsh groan of breath over his shoulder. Over_ his  _shoulder, and Alek was rather tall for a human. In an odd, snappy accent, a deep voice drawled, "Is this Jedi bothering you, Nujae?"_ Nujae?  _Alek glanced over the shoulder, nearly took a startled step back at the Herglic looming over him. He was tall even for a Herglic, Alek would have to reach up a fair ways to find his head, his shoulders as wide as Alek's arms outstretched. Peculiarly for a Herglic, mostly known as a gentle people, this one's arms were covered in nicks from blades and burns from near misses, a nasty blaster scar overtaking much of the left side of his face. He was looking at Alek with clear distrust, his wide lips curling._

_Faintly, he remembered Herglics were one of the species naturally immune to manipulation through the Force. The thought didn't make him feel any less uneasy._

" _It's fine, Joshal, Alek's cool. Hundred."_

_Alek blinked, turned back down to Lesami. She was focused on the game again, seemingly ignoring him. He didn't miss the tension in her shoulders, how the other beings at the table — Devaronians, Rodians, a bloody Mrlssi of all things — kept throwing him wary glances. "What the hell are you doing here, Lesami?"_

" _Careful there, Master Jedi." Lesami messed around with her cards a little bit, but he didn't know enough about sabaac to tell at a glance what was going on, and didn't truly care besides. "Cursing implies anger. If your master heard that, it might mean another lecture. Zhar Lestin," she said, leaning a little closer to a smirking Devaronian to her left. "A good man, of course, but he never shuts the fuck up, honestly."_

_A flash of irritation warmed his face, just for an instant, before it was washed away again. "And I suppose Kreia always keeps her thoughts to herself."_

_At her master's name, Lesami stilled, suddenly cold and hard, her presence in the Force too sharp to look at, the way she only got when she was truly annoyed. "I'm sure I couldn't say."_

" _Dammit, Lesami, stop messing around!" He could hear the anger on his own voice, but he didn't care, Lesami was just— just— "This is no place for a Jedi to be! You're coming back to the Temple with me, right now!"_

_The room, abruptly, went silent._

_While the scarred and armed sentients all around the room glared at them, a few at the table already springing to their feet and going for blasters, outrage an instant from breaking, Lesami let out a heavy sigh. "Alek, you're a bloody idiot. You know that?"_

_There was shouting, accusations of cheating filling the air, plenty of rather graphic invective directed at the Jedi in general, and blasters were appearing in all directions, he could feel it on the air, they weren't letting Lesami out with whatever money she'd won. Or perhaps at all. Without thinking, an automatic response to the hostility all around them, Alek reached for his lightsaber. The movement had the more jumpy among them firing, and his eyes were dazzled with blasterfire. Even as the Force moved his arm to intercept the first shots, he abruptly realized that, with the way she was dressed, Lesami most likely didn't have her lightsaber on her._

_But then, she didn't really need one._

_Lesami had sprung to her feet at his side, one arm rising as the bolts fell upon them. A few of the first volley struck her directly, the fabric of her dress incinerating on contact, but she wasn't harmed. Alek could feel it, the Force burned with it, too bright, he took an unconscious step away, she was pulling the energy of the blaster shots into herself, consuming it, changing it. She slammed her hand down on the table, and the energy was released as a gout of fire, a green and blue wave roaring up toward the ceiling, white lightning crackling across the surface. When the display died down, the table had been reduced to a cracked and smoking ruin._

_And the room had fallen silent again, the thugs all around them frozen with fearful awe. Or, perhaps, the simple realization that blasters were worse than useless against a Jedi like Lesami. She_ could  _be overwhelmed, of course, she could only channel so much energy at once, but they probably didn't know that._

_The Order might have removed most forms of sorcery from the standard curriculum millennia ago, but Alek couldn't deny the stuff was seriously effective. Tutaminis really felt like cheating sometimes, he thought._

" _Thanks for the game, but I think I should be leaving now. Before anyone gets hurt." She turned to glare at him, and Alek winced at the cold accusation in her eyes. Then she was moving, striding stiffly for the door, annoyance heavy with every step._

" _Nujae!" That was the shifty-looking Herglic, thumping after Lesami with a twisted glare on his scarred face. "Don't you just be walking out. You broke the table. Those things aren't—"_

_Lesami whirled around, looking up at the Herglic, her expression somewhere between exasperated and amused. Plucking at her dress — Alek noticed there were a few holes in the fabric, flashes of skin underneath circled by char — she said, "They bloody shot me! You want someone to pay for the damage, get them to do it." With a final disparaging glare around the room, Lesami turned on her heel, and was gone._

_Alek was only a few steps behind her. No way in hell was he hanging around in there any longer than he had to — most of the patrons hadn't even put away their blasters yet. He nearly bumped into her just out on the concourse, standing there and glaring up at him. "I suppose you think that was my fault."_

" _It was." Lesami held out a hand, one eyebrow ticking up. "Give me your cloak."_

" _What are—"_

" _I'm not exactly decent right now, Alek. Give me your sodding cloak."_

_Alek glanced down, felt his cheeks flare with heat an instant later. Glancing awkwardly to the side, Alek shrugged his cloak off his shoulders, handed it over. "Sorry."_

_Lesami huffed, her eyes rolling. She whipped the heavy wool around her, hugging the fabric close to herself, started off to the left without another word, quick enough he had to jump forward to catch up. "Next time you find me in the middle of a sabaac game, don't go telling the people I'm playing with I'm a Jedi. Especially not if they happen to be armed. They'll assume I'm cheating, and people don't take that lightly."_

" _I didn't think of that, honestly." Alek ducked around a pack of wide-eyed Duros, weaving through the crowd back to Lesami._

" _Yeah, I noticed. You're an idiot like that."_

_His lips twitched. "So cruel, Lesami. And I thought you liked me."_

" _I do. Doesn't mean you're not an idiot."_

" _Hmm." Alek took another glance at the towers around them, his brow dropping in a frown. "Uh, the lift back to the Temple Precinct was the other way."_

_She shot a tight look at him over her shoulder. "I know which way the Temple is, Alek. It's late, I'm going home." Her pace hitched for a moment as she stepped into a rather rundown-looking commercial center. "Why did you come down after me anyway? Lessons for the day are surely all done by now."_

" _You didn't show up for lecture this afternoon. I was...concerned."_

" _Did the thought cross your mind that might have been on purpose?" Stepping onto a rickety turbolift, Lesami let out a low scoff, shaking her head to herself. "I swear, if I have to suffer Atris blathering on about the_ dangers of attachment  _one more time, I'll… Well, I don't know what I'll do, but I'll probably get another talking-to from Janice over it."_

_Alek shuffled his feet a little — he'd long ago ceased trying to get her to refer to Masters by their titles. He could count the Jedi Lesami showed the proper respect on his fingers. "This isn't a joking matter, Lesami."_

" _I think it is." The doors slid open, one of them creaking a little, and Lesami led them off through the hallways. Not toward the door outside, but into the maze stretching through the tower, Alek couldn't even guess where she was trying to get to. "You ever notice the irony in these silly lectures?" Lesami's voice fell, dropping into a fair imitation of Atris's low, husky drawl. She even got the Chandrillan accent mostly right. "_ Do not succumb to fear, for fear is of the Dark Side. And the Dark Side is bad, you should be very, very afraid of it _. I can't imagine how you_ don't  _find it funny sometimes."_

_Listening to his best friend mock the dangers of the Dark Side wasn't making him any less uncomfortable. "Lesami…"_

" _You don't have to say it. I know you're trying to do that proper Jedi thing these days. That's fine, I won't try to talk you out of it. I just… I just_ can't _, Alek." His cloak was thick enough to nearly hide the shrug of her shoulders. "It's not in me. Uncle Yuse taught me too well, I guess."_

 _Despite himself, he couldn't help a flare of curiosity, a question about this_ Uncle Yuse  _on his lips before he suppressed it. Lesami hardly ever mentioned her family. Which was odd, considering she_ did  _have some contact with them, however minimal that contact was. "There will be consequences for this sort of thing eventually, you know. Master Kreia won't be able to protect you from the Council forever."_

_Stepping into yet another lift, Lesami snorted out a laugh. "What are they going to do, expel me from the Order? Oh, the horror. You might have forgotten this, Alek, but I never even wanted to be a Jedi in the first place. If my refusal to submit to their brainwashing annoys them, well, that doesn't sound like my problem, does it?"_

_Alek winced — luckily they weren't at the Temple, he couldn't imagine other Jedi would have taken that comment well. "The Jedi don't brainwash their members, Lesami."_

" _Don't they?" She stared up at him, for some unfathomable reason looking almost amused. "If it were any other institution indoctrinating and dominating its own members the way the Order does, we'd be decrying them as a dangerous, abusive cult. You should consider reading_ Chains of the Mind  _by Suvasha, you might find it enlightening."_

_This wasn't the first time Lesami had mentioned Entari kun si Suvasha. She was a Shawkenese political philosopher and commentator, very old, lived during the early centuries of the Republic. When Lesami had first mentioned her, he'd looked her up — the Order considered her an anarchist and an anti-Republic radical, one of the ideological pillars of the Alsakan Conflicts and certain other separatist movements over the millennia, controversial enough apprentices and padawans needed permission to access anything attributed to her in the archive. He was never sure what to think about Lesami reading her so much. "I've read critics of the Order before. Much of it is nonsense."_

_Lesami sniffed. "Alek, Suvasha hardly ever even mentions the Jedi in any of her work. It's just theory. I applied it to the Order on my own."_

_That didn't make him feel any better._

* * *

When Mission woke up, everything hurt. It was a thin, hot sort of pain, spread through every muscle head to toe, heavy and exhausting. It left her feeling weak, shivering helplessly against the hard, dirty metal of the floor. Her senses were still fuzzy, as though her head were encased in foam, her thoughts sluggish enough there might be some inside her head too. But she only needed a couple seconds, she knew what this was.

Someone had hit her with a stun bolt.

She didn't remember what happened — most people didn't when they got stunned, it was a thing. But whatever it was, it couldn't be good. With force of will, nearly more than she had to give, Mission moved, move, come on,  _move_. She could barely wiggle at the moment, her strength was coming back so slowly, but her hands shifted enough to feel they were bound together, she couldn't tell what with.

Okay. Gonna go with  _definitely_  not good.

Her blurriness and fuzziness in her eyes and ears gradually faded away. The first thing she heard was Zee roaring and screaming, threats to rip their guts out, tear their faces from their skulls, split with curses in the names of his ancestors and his people's gods. Really nasty stuff, actually, she had no idea Zee had such a filthy mouth. And he scolded her for her language whenever she cussed even a little! She'd never heard Zee so scared before, so angry, she could feel it on his voice, as hard and sharp on the air as stepping into a distortion field.

Hearing Zaalbar in a terrified rage had her cold and shaking inside. He was frakking  _huge_  and he wasn't scared of  _anything_. Even things he probably  _should_  be scared of. If  _he_  was losing it, they were in serious trouble.

But, she'd sort of already figured that out. Her hands  _were_  tied together. Her ankles too, she noticed when she tried to move. Yeah, not news.

There was a hissing splatter of a blaster bolt, and Zaalbar cut off with one last warbling call of her name. "Thought this one would never shut the fuck up." The voice was low, crackling, Huttese in a thick drawl.

"Better be worth the credits, hauling this thing around." This voice, sounding very Rodian, was also vaguely familiar, but she couldn't place it, like a word hidden at the edge of her tongue.

"Look at the size of him! Strong as anything I've ever seen. Buyer just has to collar him and it'll be fine, don't worry about it."

Mission's blood went even colder at the word, freezing in her veins completely, leaving her painfully stiff.  _Slavers_. They'd been taken by  _slavers_.

"I guess," the Rodian said, a little surly. "We going to the Exchange or the Hutts?"

"Hutts. They pay more for Twi'lek girls." Heavy, thudding steps came to a halt inches from her ear, then someone was grabbing her shoulder, fingers hard as steel, dragging her up to her feet. She wavered, still weak from the stun bolt, she would have fallen if he weren't hanging on to her.

She took a quick glance around, hoping to recognize where they were. She did, but it didn't make her feel any better. The edge of an old industrial district, mostly abandoned now, outside of a warehouse, swoop bikes and air speeders crowded around the cavernous entrance. It looked like Zee had tried to grab her and make a break for it at the last minute, they were a little ways from the pack of speeders, Zee stunned and bound on the floor just a couple feet away. She knew where this was, one of the smaller gangs had taken over the place a couple years ago. One of the nastier gangs. Rumor had it they made much of their money by snatching people, sold them to one slaver syndicate or another. It seemed the rumors were true, lucky her.

"Found us a pretty one, too." The man holding her upright, a human man with scars and pointy tattoos all over his face, was giving her a wide, toothy leer. His eyes trailed slowly downward, and Mission felt a sudden need to take a shower that had nothing to do with how filthy the floor she'd just been lying on was. "Almost seems a shame to hand her off to the Hutts without trying her out first."

"Red," the Rodian said, exasperated, "leave off. She's just a kid."

Mission bit her lip to hold in the automatic argument. If her choices were being a kid or being raped, she was picking the first one. She glanced toward the Rodian. Then stared, mouth and eyes wide, for a handful of seconds before she found her voice. "You!"

The Rodian — stang, what was his name, she knew she'd heard it — gave her a sickening glare. "Yes, little blue. Me. You cheated me out of a lot of money today."

"I don't know what you're talking about." She hoped the lie was believable, that the cringe stayed inside where it belonged. Couldn't remember his name, but she did recognize the guy, he'd been the last one she'd eliminated at the second table in the tournament. She gamed the shift a little to knock him out, same she'd had to do with Cina later. She'd thought nobody would notice, but it seemed at least two people had. And the Rodian was taking it a  _lot_  harder than Cina had.

"Don't act dumb with me, kid. I've been playing since before you were born. I know a cheat when I see it."

Mission swallowed back a retort about his age, bad timing. "You are so dead. You grabbed me in the middle of Bek territory, slime-for-brains. You don't think Gadon is going to find out?" Ooh, when Zaedra got wind of this she was going to kill him  _so_  bloody. It would be very gross. Zaerdra was scary like that.

The human let out a snorting guffaw. "Stupid little shit. Gadon doesn't rule the capital district anymore. He's on the way out. Good a way to learn as any I guess, huh?" he said to his partner in sleaze, chuckling to himself.

The Rodian didn't answer. But his snout curved in a cruel smirk.

Luckily for Mission, that was about when everything went to hell.

An airspeeder, peeling through the air so fast it squealed, zipped over their heads. Mission turned to follow it, on its careening path toward the mass of speeders outside the warehouse. So she only heard the body land and roll with a  _thump-click-clunk_ , light steps rapidly closing. The human holding her cursed, whipped her around, trying to duck behind her much smaller body, pulling his blaster from his belt. Mission caught sight of the intruder even as the shot went off, screaming over her head to carve into flesh above her, the vise holding her shoulder immediately loosening.

She gaped.  _Cina?_  It was definitely Cina, that soft-hearted off-worlder bookish type she'd run into at Javyar's (and later cheated out of hundreds of thousand of credits), a blaster in her hands and black fire in her eyes. Mission had written her off as harmless before, but she looked almost scary now, hard and cold and merciless. She'd killed that guy easy, he'd been using Mission as a shield but she'd just nailed him in the head with a single shot, snap, done. She'd been watching, Cina hadn't blinked. She hadn't even stopped moving, still running toward Mission like rakghouls were at her heels.

It was scary, but Mission wasn't scared. She felt like a balloon had gone off in her chest, her eyes were pricking with tears. They were saved. Everything would be fine.

The next instant, there was an ear-rending crash, an explosion of sparks, a roar of fire. Mission whirled around on her heel, then just stood gaping again. The airspeeder that had gone over their heads, it had smashed itself into the gang's haphazard parking lot, carving a furrow through the swoop bikes and airspeeders before just going up, taking a good fourth of the lot with it. The fire and the smoke completely blocked the warehouse entrance.

She didn't have any more time to look. Cina grabbed her by the wrists as she ran past, dragging her forward, the restraints digging into her. " _Move_ , go, go." Mission half-hopped half-hobbled the few feet to the nearest airspeeder — Red and the Rodian's, slightly removed from the rest — and Cina yanked her down to the ground, ducking behind the frame. Sitting with her back to it, she saw that friend of hers (some human guy, didn't remember his name), dragging Zee, still unconscious, toward them by the wrists. Zee was okay. They'd be fine, they'd get out of this.

The first blaster bolts started coming from the warehouse, burning across the air, pinging against the airspeeder. She winced — assuming they didn't get killed anyway.

"Lady, are you  _insane_?!" The man dropped Zee's wrists, moved to kneel next to her, blasters appearing in each hand. He started taking potshots over the edge, his teeth gritting so hard the veins in his neck were jumping out.

"It worked, didn't it?" Cina pulled something out from her sleeve, a narrow metal tube a little longer than her hand, and—

Mission's mouth dropped open. A lightsaber! All blue and glowing and pretty, it was a  _lightsaber!_   _Cina was a Jedi!_  She hardly noticed Cina slicing apart the bindings around her wrists and ankles, shuffling over to do the same for Zee. She just stared in numb wonder, her head a useless fuzz. She couldn't, she was being  _rescued by a kriffing Jedi_ , she couldn't believe it, it was just—

"In case you haven't noticed, you  _blew up_  our only means of transportation — which you  _stole_ , by the way — and we're being shot at by dozens of angry gangsters! How does that spell  _it worked_  to you?!"

"I think  _dozens_  is overselling it a little." Cina jabbed a hypo into Zee's shoulder, and in the blink of an eye he was jumping to his feet, roaring in mad defiance. It only took a few blaster bolts screaming around his head for him to snap out of it, crouch down behind the airspeeder with the rest of them. "Mission, know any way we can lose them around here?"

"Ah…" Mission cringed at another volley of blaster bolts, the air nearly glowing with them, her arms rising to fold over her head on instinct. "Sure, I know a place, but we can't do it if we're all shot right away!"

Cina frowned, glancing around, her eyes flicking so quickly Mission couldn't tell what she was looking at. "Cover me."

The man scoffed. " _Cover you?!_  What— Hey!"

Before the man could stop her, Cina was running out into the rain of blaster fire, halfway bent over, arms folded over the back of her head. He cursed, loud and long, popped over the speeder to fire off a steady stream toward the warehouse. Zee was even helping, she wasn't sure where he'd gotten a blaster from. After a short distance weaving back and forth seemingly at random, Cina dropped to her knees at Red's corpse, started fiddling with something at his belt. But Mission wasn't watching her, her gaze distracted by Zee, fumbling with the too-small grip of the blaster.

She glanced toward the back of the speeder, the compartment there. With the way the speeder was turned, there wasn't a clear angle to the warehouse from there, but it wasn't as safe as back here. A peek around the corner showed a few glowing furrows from blaster shots around the edge, sparks dancing across the floor. But she was small, she could do it. She  _could_.

Go. Go.  _Go_.

Mission pushed herself up on shaky knees, darted around the corner of the speeder. Keeping as far to the back side as she could, she took a quick look along the seam the compartment made in the metal; she pulled a magnet from a pouch at her belt, ran it back and forth along the center of the lip. Ah, there it was, basic maglock. No problem. She drew her probe out of her sleeve, then hesitated, just a moment, drawing in a long breath.

Turning up on her knees, facing the lock, Mission flicked the probe on, the whirr of tiny electronics hidden by the screaming of blaster fire. Her hands were shaking, it took her a few tries to work the tip into the seam, the lock weakened, she nearly dropped her knife, but she had the tip through the gap a second later, the latch should be right…

There was an ear-piercing scream of superheated air and metal, so loud her head rang, her heart nearly jumped out of her chest, sparks falling to pinch at her skin. " _Frakk!_  Shit…" She'd slipped, the probe was out of place, she wedged it back—

"Mission!"

"Get back here, kid!"

"I've almost got it!" Even as she said it, her knife met a bit of resistance, a flick of her finger had the vibration turned on full. With a cry of shearing metal, the compartment popped open. "Yes!" She tipped up to her feet, making sure to put the door of the compartment between herself and the source of the blasterfire. There was Zee's bowcaster, his ammo belt wrapped around the haft. Oh, hey, there was her pad and holo too, couldn't leave those here. The pad slipped into her belt and the holo latched onto her wrist where it belonged, Mission wrapped both arms around Zee's ridiculously huge gun — seriously, the thing was  _big_ , she nearly tipped over into the compartment just trying to lift it.

She ducked back around the corner, just in time to catch Cina rolling over the door of the speeder to disappear inside. Ignoring how it made her arms burn and her elbows twinge, she tossed Zee his bowcaster. With a smirk that was probably far more shaky than she would like, "Am I good or what?"

Zee's furry brow dropped in a disapproving glare. "That was very dangerous, Mission." But he left it at that, loading his bowcaster with a sharp yank and a heavy clank. He tossed the blaster he had been using toward her, rose to his knees to take shots at these sleazy punks again, the heavy thrumming of his bowcaster carrying under the much higher standard blasters, shots slow and measured.

And, knowing Zee, terrifyingly precise. He was a scary good shot with that thing.

Having caught the blaster without thinking, Mission just stared at it for a moment. This was  _hers_. How had— Oh, the Rodian must have nicked it. Never mind, not important. Mission didn't bother using it, just slipped the thing back into its holster. She wasn't that good of a shot to begin with, and with how many people they had shooting at them, her hands were still shaking, no, not worth it. "Still waiting on the plan to get us out of here."

The human man, jaw clenching so hard his neck got all weird and ridgy, paused in his seemingly random shooting to switch out power cells (which took a shockingly short amount of time, his hands moved damn  _fast_ ). "I get the feeling Hayal is working on another insane plan involving explosions."

"Done." Rolling over the door again, Cina dropped down next to her, landing almost silently on the balls of her feet. Well, silently except for the clattering of her blaster and the jangling of credits, anyway. "When the speeder starts moving, run. Mission, which way are we going?"

"Ah…" Mission squinted through the smoke, turned bright and opaque by the constant blaster fire. "Right there, that tiny little storehouse right there, there's a staircase in the back."

Zee grunted. "Our nest above Eyvar's."

"Yeah, through the maintenance level. They can't get their speeders in there, and it'll be easy to lose 'em."

"You know the way, Zaalbar?" He gave Cina a nod, getting another nod back. "Good. Carry Mission." Zee just nodded again, kept shooting.

"Hey! I can—"

Cina's eyes flicked to her, and she had scary face on, all hard and too still, her eyes black, sparkling with red from reflected blaster shots. "You have shorter legs than the rest of us, and you're still weak from being stunned. You can't keep up. Zaalbar will carry you."

Mission wasn't proud to admit she might have pouted a little. How  _dare_  Cina have a good point?

A few seconds later, the speeder jolted, lifted a few inches off the ground and started sliding to the side. Leaning against it, Mission almost toppled over, she had to scramble to stay upright. The speeder moved slow at first, turning and rising another couple feet, Zaalbar and Cina and the human geezer standing upright as it moved, still firing back toward the warehouse in a steady, screaming stream. Mission jumped, pushed herself to her feet, brought her blaster up—

"Go!" Cina turned and broke into a run, whipping by Mission, the man just behind her, before she could barely blink, Zaalbar was there, ducking down, lifting her at the waist over his shoulder so quickly it drove the breath out of her lungs.

Facing backward, Mission saw the speeder suddenly take off, streaking toward the warehouse door at full acceleration. The hail of blaster shots focused on the speeder, the front end flaring a brilliant yellow, but it was moving too quick, it was too big, they wouldn't—

The speeder slammed into the wall just above the doors, then vanished in a flood of yellow and orange fire, flashing outward, consuming one figure and another, half her vision completely consumed with light and heat. The shockwave hit them a moment later, like repulsorlifts passing too close over her head, Zaalbar's loping strides faltering for just a second before picking up again, pulling ahead of the humans.

Mission turned to sneak a glance over Zaalbar's shoulder, measured the distance to the much smaller storehouse. Then she looked back, squinted through the scope of her blaster, looking for anything moving through the mass of smoke, fitfully flickering with a dozen little fires. She kept searching until metal walls blocked her vision.

She finally let the smile break across her face. There  _were_  people following them, but only a few, and they were already too far behind.

They were going to make it. They were saved.

* * *

"Are you  _completely insane_ , woman?! Are you  _trying_  to get us killed?"

Cina swallowed her mouthful of nyra juice, rolling her eyes. "Oh, settle down, Carth. It worked, didn't it?"

The exhausting man was startled out of his tirade for a second — probably because she'd actually used his first name, she didn't think she'd ever done that before. Finally, he managed, "We're lucky we got away with that. We didn't have the numbers to— Do you just  _like_  explosions, is that it?"

Her lips twitched with a smirk. "What can I say? Fire gets me hot."

"Ooohh!" Mission apparently couldn't decide if she wanted to groan or laugh. "That was  _terrible_."

Cina winked at her. At least the girl appreciated a bad pun.

For a couple seconds, he managed to keep up a proper glare, but it quickly collapsed. He leaned back into his chair with a heavy sigh. The thing groaned with the movement, the cloth squeaking.

Zaalbar had lead them to one of his and Mission's hideouts — apparently they had a few, dotted across the capital district. This one had been an abandoned apartment, smaller than the one she and Onasi had claimed, a single little room and a fresher she'd initially mistaken for a closet. They'd filled the place out, with torn and creaky furniture, bits of electronic equipment stacked all over the place, only about a third of which Cina actually recognized, little figurines Zaalbar had apparently whittled out of plastic, string lights hung all over the walls, the ceiling.

As much as Carth complained about the lack of floorspace when he'd first seen it, Cina thought it was surprisingly homey. She had to wonder if all their places were as nice as this one.

"I just wish we would talk things out before you, just,  _do_  it." Oh, right, Carth was still complaining. "I mean, that was  _very_  risky. I still think we should have tried going to these Beks. They probably would have helped, given us better odds at least."

Cina shook her head. "Bad idea. We had to stay on them the whole time, or we might have lost them. And those were slavers — by the time the Beks could round up the blasters needed to hit that warehouse, Mission and Zaalbar might have been long gone."

Carth opened his mouth to argue, but Mission got there first. "She's right. I bet they'd only stopped to move us to a bubble speeder. The Hutts are a few levels up, there are cameras there. By the time you got back we'd be gone, you'd never have found us again." A shade of fear crossed Mission's face at the thought, but she recovered quickly. She'd been shaky during the shooting, but she was much better now, already smirking and joking. Tough kid.

"Fine! Fine, I give up. Next time you have a completely insane plan, I'll just sit back and not say anything."

She smirked. "Good boy."

Just as Carth finished his grumbling, the hallway door slipped open, and Zaalbar shuffled inside, gently closing and locking the door behind him. He probably had to do everything gently, considering how naturally strong Wookiees were. He hung his bowcaster on a nearby hook, a low groan emanating from the beleaguered plastic. Which also wasn't a surprise, those things were bloody heavy — honestly, Cina was a little impressed Mission had even managed to lift it. In a warbling, guttural growl, he said, "I canvassed the whole square. We were not followed."

Mission scoffed. "Of course we weren't followed. They lost us before we even left Khunas."

"Yes," he agreed, something to the rumble of his voice sounding reluctant, "but I would prefer to err on the side of caution, in this matter."

"Oh, I ain't arguing there. Did I try to stop you going out to check? Take no chances dealing with slavers, hundred percent. If we hadn't had  _a kriffing Jedi_ swoop in to save us like a hero in a terrible holodrama, we'd have been so, well, it would have been bad. Very bad." Mission turned back to Cina, expression solemn and eyes clouded, more serious-looking than she thought she'd ever seen the excitable girl. "Thanks for that, by the way. We owe you like a million." Zaalbar grumbled in agreement, shaggy head nodding.

But Cina just stared back, slowly blinking. She glanced at Carth, but he looked far too amused. A dark sort of amusement, she guessed, a crooked smirk that hinted at far too much experience with crazy Jedi, but she didn't see what about this was so funny. Finally, she found her voice again. "I'm not a Jedi."

Mission rolled her eyes. "Uh-huh. Sure."

"No, really, I'm  _not_  a Jedi." At least, she didn't  _think_  she was a Jedi — she had no idea  _what_  she was, her head being the confusing fucked up mess it was, but she was pretty sure she would have noticed if she had reality-bending magic powers.

Jedi might deny what they did was magic, but come on, it was  _obviously_  magic. She was pretty sure they just didn't like the word. It sounded too primitive and undignified. Which should come as no surprise, they were self-important arses like that.

But anyway, having a conversation here. "What the hell makes you think I'm a Jedi anyway?"

Mission gave her an annoyed look, silently telling her to quit the act, her playing dumb was just irritating. "Uh, you swooped in to rescue two practical strangers from being sold into slavery in a poorly thought-out rush that involved explosions and running through blaster fire like a crazy person. Also?  _You have a kriffing lightsaber!"_  Her voice had risen almost to a shout, pointing an accusing finger at her.

Letting out a sharp, shocked bark of laughter, Carth said, "She's got you there, Cianen. Only a Jedi could pull that kind of shit and expect to come out alive."

"Son of a—  _Honestly_ , Mission, I'm not a Jedi. This," she said, tapping the hilt of the lightsaber hidden under her shirt, "wasn't mine. The Jedi it belonged to is dead." A look of shock crossed Mission's face. "I didn't kill her!" Well, she  _had_  killed her, technically, but Annas would have died anyway. Cina had just cut her suffering short. "She gave it to me. I don't know why, Jedi are weird. But, point is, I'm  _not_  a Jedi."

"I don't know, you could be. It's not impossible. We really have no idea who you were before." Because this was the perfect moment for Carth to tell Mission and Zaalbar about her exciting adventures in brain damage.

"What do you mean, who she was before?" Mission glanced between the two of them, face scrunched with an adorable little frown.

Cina shot Carth a hooded glare. Not helping. "Fine,  _so far as I am aware_ , I am not a Jedi."

That just made Mission frown harder. "That doesn't make any sense."

"Tell me about it."

Zaalbar, still looming over them a few steps inside the door, stared at Cina, dark eyes uncomfortably heavy. "You...are not a Jedi?"

It took a second for Cina to figure out what he was saying. Wookiees couldn't pronounce  _Jedi_ , of course — he'd literally said something about warriors and souls and vines, it was confusing. "Oh. No, no I'm not."

"And you are not with any security force, or sworn to serve the Republic. Or anything of the like."

"No?" That didn't  _sound_  like something she would have done, anyway... "Carth is Republic, but I'm not. What does that matter?"

Zaalbar stared at her for another moment. Tense and still, an odd sense of intensity almost seeming to radiate out of him. His black gaze tracked to Mission, only for a second, before flicking back to her. "You rescued the two of us from a horrible fate, at no small risk to yourself. You did this despite being under no obligation to do so, with no expectation of repayment of any kind."

Distantly, her inexplicable knowledge of Wookiee culture filling in the blanks, Cina felt her eyes widen and her lips part a sliver — she knew where this was going. Mission caught it just as she did, straightening in her chair. "Woah, Zee, wait up a sec—"

"I have no choice, Sister. My honor is already too far blackened for me to sully it once again." His voice turned deeper, the subtle sense of formality always apparent in his speech turning almost poetic. "I owe you my life, friend. The spirits of our ancestors be witness, I will follow you through sky and through shadow until my debt be paid."

Cina opened her mouth, intending to tell him to keep his debt, she didn't want it. But then she froze, cursing silently. She couldn't refuse. Well, she  _could_ — there was plenty of precedent for a Wookiee rejecting a life-debt, their law accounted for it — but she  _shouldn't_. The Wookiees were a primitive tribal people, and they took their concept of honor very,  _very_  seriously. Most Wookiees considered their honor to be more valuable than their lives. Zaalbar was correct in that there were no extenuating circumstances Cina was aware of that would invalidate the debt, not according to their own law. Cina could theoretically get one of their lawspeakers to find a loophole for her, if she really wanted to get out of it, but they didn't exactly have one of those on hand.

Refusing a legitimate debt would be an insult. Essentially, she would be telling Zaalbar his life wasn't valuable enough for him to repay her for preserving it. There were very few things  _more_  insulting. By the look of him, Zaalbar was still rather young for his species, in the equivalent of his teenage years. She had no idea exactly how much refusing him would hurt him, but it wouldn't be good.

And besides, there could be benefits to having him along. He was a  _very_  good shot with that bowcaster of his, she'd noticed, and by the way he talked he was a rather thoughtful, intelligent sort. And, if he was comfortable considering Mission family, she probably felt much the same — getting her on-side could be a massive boon in tracking down Shan, given her skill with slicing.

And it would only be for a little while. A Wookiee life-debt was not forever — they would be joined together until Zaalbar felt the aid he gave Cina surpassed what she had done for him. With how dangerous recovering Shan and getting off the planet was bound to be, that shouldn't even be very long.

Suffocating the last traces of her reluctance, Cina dug for the proper response. She couldn't pronounce the language, of course, but she could translate the ritual words easily enough. "I accept your vow, friend. The spirits of our ancestors be witness, I will lead you through sky and through shadow until your heart by free."

Zaalbar seemed a little surprised she knew exactly what to say — at least, she  _thought_  he was, Wookiee body language was tricky. But he nodded and, without another word, turned to fiddle with the equipment stacked in a row by the door. Preparing dinner, by the look of it.

Well. That was that, then.

"Okay," Carth said in a low drawl, "what the hell was that about?"

"Zee just swore Cina a life-debt." There was an obvious note of awe to Mission's voice — clearly, she'd picked up a bit over however many years she and Zaalbar had been together. "Which, which is  _huge_. You get that, right, Cina? 'Cause, if you hurt Big Zee, I'm gonna…"

Cina couldn't help smiling a little at the threat. "Yes, Mission, I get it." Better than she did, probably. Not that Cina had any idea how she knew so much about Wookiee tribal law. "Don't worry, I'll mind myself about him."

Even with that paltry reassurance, Mission was bursting into a bright grin. Though, maybe she'd just been thoroughly convinced by this point of the purity of Cina's intentions — she had, after all, done nothing about Mission swindling her out of hundreds of thousands of credits, then showed up out of nowhere to save herself from the consequences of her own actions. By this point, Mission probably thought she was...well, as she'd put it,  _a hero in a terrible holodrama_.

It was a little amusing, actually. It wasn't so long ago, shooting her way out of the  _Spire_ , that Cina had had the same thought herself.

"Well, wherever Zee goes, I go. So I guess you're stuck with me too."

Cina's smile tilted a little into a teasing smirk. "Somehow I'll survive."

"You've got to be kidding me." Despite the disbelief in his words, the tone of Carth's voice was far more defeated, a final gasp of resistance before surrender. "Unless you forgot, Professor, we have a job to do here. We can't rescue Bastila and babysit street kids and thieves at the same time."

"Hey! Watch who you're calling kid!"

Cina snorted. "Not disputing the  _thief_  part, I see."

Mission's lekku shifted in a smooth shrug. "You don't know me, old man. I got mad skills, just you watch. You got something you need decrypted, or a system you gotta slice into, or data you gotta filter, or—"

"Actually, Mission, I have a job I think you might be perfect for." That had the girl cutting off immediately, shooting her another grin; the contrast against Carth's dour glare just made it seem all the more brilliant. "As you might have guessed by now, we were with the Republic fleet the Sith crushed in orbit a couple days ago."

Her nose scrunched up again in adorable confusion. Twi'leks did tend to be cute, of course, it was completely unfair. "I thought you said you weren't with the Republic."

"I'm not. I was hired by the Jedi to translate the inscriptions on some old ruins they found, long story." It was a long story not even getting into the fact that she was convinced the entire thing about the ruins had been some convoluted front to get her to Dantooine for reasons she couldn't begin to guess at. "Carth is Republic, though. This stick-in-the-mud is kind of famous, actually, look up his name later.

"Anyway, out of the goodness of my heart—" Carth coughed. "—I decided to help Captain Onasi here track down his commanding officer. One Jedi Knight Bastila Shan." By the way Mission's eyes nearly popped out of her skull, that name she'd  _definitely_  heard before. "We know she got off the ship, on one of the escape pods. We're  _hoping_  she made it to the surface alive, and is still around somewhere. If you could find her somehow, that'd be a big help. Maybe the cameras caught her at some point, or if someone found her there might be chatter on the net…"

"I'll do you one better. I just realized, maybe she…" Mission pulled out her datapad, poked around on it for a little bit. There was a blue flicker at her wrist, and a mobile holoprojector sparked into life, a half life-size image forming in the middle of room. "I didn't think of it before, but, that's Bastila, isn't it?"

It was a still image, showing three figures. Two of them, a Kajain'sa'Nikto and a human, were armed to the teeth, with pistols and rifles and layered in expensive-looking armor. Decorated, she noticed, with Black Vulkar insignia. Between them was a human woman, a shock collar tight around her neck and what looked like a high-grade neural disruptor around her temples, her wrists bound with plastic cuffs. She'd been forced into something black and tight and revealing — it might as well be lingerie, really — faded traces of bruises and scrapes from being rattled around during reentry still visible.

The human gangster, a dark-skinned man with a wicked smile, had a hand clenched around her jaw, turning her face to the camera. The way she was dressed was so severely out of character it would be funny in a less exploitative context, but there was no mistaking who she was.

Cina didn't think she'd heard Carth swear quite that loudly before. It was almost impressive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sabaac —  _The deck and the rules have been slightly changed from canon. Partially for balance, partially to make the strategy involved more complex and interesting. It's not super important, I won't be going over it in detail._
> 
> _I did play with the names of the cards slightly, mostly to realign their meanings with the major arcana they were copied from. Balance, for example, is obviously supposed to be Justice, but the direct meaning is too off for my liking, especially in a culture that might have completely forgotten what balance scales even are. Moderation was also changed back to Temperance. (Just because "moderation" is used in the dictionary definition doesn't mean the words are interchangeable.)_
> 
> Sabaac cards —  _They are essentially static displays, since they have to change. But in some media, I see creators conclude this means they have to be firm, hard plastic -like things. Uh...no? Some tech person with nothing better to do with their time could theoretically make randomizable, flexible playing cards_ _right now_ _, using OLEDs on a rubbery plastic substrate (probably some kind of polyethylene) with minimal embedded bluetooth (or similar local wireless protocol). Getting it to spring back like cardboard would be more difficult, but this is_ _new_   _materials science to us. You're telling me a hyper-advanced space-faring society like the one in Star Wars couldn't come up with something much more efficient and durable? Please. They're a thousand times easier to implement than fucking holograms._
> 
> _Yes, I realize I think far too hard about this stuff._
> 
> sorcery —  _Headcanon: sorcery, like alchemy, is a method of using the Force, not necessarily Light or Dark. Sith sorcery and alchemy are far more well-known in the modern day, but the Jedi_ did  _once practice their own Light Side forms of the arts. They'd both been abandoned over the millennia Jedi have existed, though, for philosophy reasons that will come up later. Most Jedi never even learn about them, to the point few are aware some standard abilities like tutaminis and most forms of healing are technically sorcery._
> 
> * * *
> 
> _Whew. Finally._
> 
> _Yes, I'm streamlining the Taris sequence significantly. I personally don't like it much, so I decided to cut out a lot of the random wandering around and backtracking and get right to the point. Taris should only take a few more chapters, in fact, and we'll be moving on._
> 
> _Until next time,_  
>  ~Wings


	7. Taris — III

_It happened too quickly for Bastila to really see it, her vision overwhelmed with brilliant light, her eyes burning. The noise was all-consuming, the vibrations shaking her body numb, so intense she couldn't feel, she couldn't think. It went on for an infinite instant, fire and chaos, surrounding her hot and cold, the Force around her filled with screams of pain and the void of death._

_And then it was over, abruptly as it'd begun._

_Bastila opened herself to the Force almost without thinking. Soothing warmth coursed through her, turned only slightly pungent from the agony of the dying. Millions of microlacerations in her tissues were stitched back together in a blink, sensation quickly returning to her as healing life flooded into her head. She turned onto her knees, balance only slightly shaking, lightsaber slapping into her palm with a reflexive reach. She turned, instinctively, toward where Revan had been, preparing to—_

_She stopped dead. That light, whatever that had been, had torn through the huge transparisteel viewports forming a ring around the bridge, the crew stations to her left and right, all down the length of the large triangular room scorched and shredded. A few spots here and there still glowed, superheated materials afire from within. It was just...gone, the whole bridge was_ gone _. All the crew were dead, nothing of them left, the faintly crackling blue haze of the ray shields the only thing standing between Bastila and oblivion._

_The forward point of their safe corridor was a wreck, metals and plastics blackened and warped. Whatever blast had taken out the bridge must have burned through the shield, only temporarily before the system compensated. A paltry handful of meters from the center of the blast were two figures. One wore Jedi robes, the cloth dotted with blood in a couple places, stripes of black left from passing lightsabers. Kavarr, he was alive. He was kneeling over another, mostly hidden under a pooling cloak of red and black._

Revan.

" _Is she…" Bastila didn't finish the question: she already knew. She could feel it. The faintest warmth, sunlight blocked by layers of cloud, a heartbeat more felt than heard. Revan yet lived. Barely. Her presence in the Force was weak, flickering, faltering._

" _It is done." With surprising gentleness, Kavarr laid a hand on Revan's unmoving shoulder, his presence cool and still and solemn. "It is a shame, the way things turned out. She had such promise."_

_Bastila knew there was some truth to that, no matter how...controversial Lesami po si Revas had been with the masters from the beginning. She was exceptionally powerful, of course, exceptionally gifted. Bastila hadn't even heard of her before the war — she was a decade younger, and they'd been trained in different enclaves — but everyone had known about Revan, that dramatic, charismatic figure leading dozens of Jedi to take the fight to the Mandalorians, in explicit defiance of the Council. No one had known who Revan really was, of course, knowledge of her real name had been strictly classified back then, but everyone talked about her, all the time. Not always in a flattering light, especially among the older Jedi, but to the younger generations..._

_It was somewhat embarrassing looking back on it now, but Bastila had admired Revan, once upon a time. "Admired" might be too soft a word, in fact._

This _, she had thought,_ this is what a Jedi is supposed to be. This is our true calling.

_Not sitting in some temple somewhere, constantly philosophizing and bickering in the abstract, contemplating the Force in isolation, no,_ no _. Jedi were meant to be out in the world, they were meant to serve their fellow beings, in whatever capacity their own talents allowed. They were meant to bring light to the darkness, relief to the oppressed, succor to the poor and the outcast. They were meant to lead, they were meant to inspire._

_A younger, more innocent Bastila had seen Revan's actions, heard her words, and thought to herself,_ Yes, this is what we truly are. This is what we are meant to be.

_Then, Revan and the Jedi she had led into war had become something...else. And Bastila had learned exactly what the masters had been afraid of the entire time. In retrospect, that she had been so taken with the passion and the pride that had inevitably led to corruption was a little horrifying, she preferred to not think about it._

_If Bastila had only been a little older,_ she  _could be..._

_And there she was. A warrior turned murderer, a champion turned tyrant. The woman once credited with saving the Republic from the brink of annihilation, only to turn around and bring it to its knees once again. Lying there — beaten, broken, done._

_There was something strangely sad about it. It just didn't seem… It felt empty, somehow. All the ways Revan could have died, this wasn't one Bastila would have imagined. Larger-than-life figures like this weren't supposed to go out quietly, sinking into an unconsciousness so deep they'd never rise from it. Before, fighting the Mandalorians, she should have died in a blaze of self-sacrificial glory, taking a thousand of the galaxy's most fearsome warriors with her, perhaps covering the retreat of her men, yes, selfless and terrible and awe-inspiring. A martyr, a symbol to take them through the rest of the war. Now, as the leader of the Sith, it should be just as terrible, though in a different way — a final, desperate gamble, perhaps, power and pride and self-destructive theatrics, inevitably including some diatribe about how they small-minded fools simply couldn't understand the brilliance of her vision. Something, there should be_ something _._

_Standing there in the ruined remains of the bridge, surrounded by death, the battle still raging beyond the thin ionizing field isolating them from the void, the idea couldn't quite penetrate. It didn't feel quite real, some visceral part of her rejected the thought out of hand. It wasn't..._

_She couldn't quite believe that_ this  _was the end of Lesami po si Revas, of Revan,_ the  _Revan. It just felt...wrong._

_The deck shook, the superstructure of the massive ship raked with further turbolaser blasts, the scattered light dazzling her vision, again and again and again. Through the flashes and the spotting, she saw Kavarr rise, slowly, as though he'd aged decades in but moments. "We need to leave." And he started toward her, toward the door back into the rest of the ship._

_He left Revan on the floor behind him._

_The words blurted out with absolutely no conscious input from her. "We can't just leave her here."_

_Kavarr stopped, stared at her. He wasn't surprised, exactly, his face hard but his eyes soft. "She will not survive, Padawan. Your instincts guide you well, but—"_

_Without really meaning to, without even realizing she was doing it, Bastila had moved, kneeling over Revan's motionless body, her form hidden under layers of cloth and armor. And the Force leapt at her invitation, thick and warm, garren chowder at the end of a long day, a thick blanket on a winter night._

_They'd saved her, but it wasn't enough._

_In the silence of hyperspace, racing for Dantooine with their illicit cargo, Bastila sat in the tiny medbay of their unassuming freighter, sat with Revan. She was so small. They'd removed her robes and her armor, her infamous mask, and she was so_ small _. Standing she'd be shorter than Bastila, toned but somehow more delicate-looking than she had any right to be. She looked like any other human woman, really. It was almost hard for Bastila to remember who this was, this was_ Revan _, she just seemed so...ordinary._

_Bastila had seen holos of Jedi Lesami before, of course. It still seemed strange, though, somehow wrong._

She's going to die on this table.

_They could both feel it, she and Kavarr, they knew. They'd healed her body, yes, but her spirit still felt so weak, so far away. She was sitting within arm's reach, and she could still barely feel it. And it wasn't the fault of the sedatives — Kavarr had insisted on it, they couldn't risk her actually waking up. They'd healed her body, but her mind was still dying, still drifting away. Soon she would fade to nothing, and Revan would be gone._

_It still felt wrong. Over the last hours, she still hadn't managed to find the words to describe exactly why the thought bothered her so much. She simply couldn't imagine Revan,_ the  _Revan, dying here, like this. It was just wrong._

_Idly, without fully thinking through what she was doing, Bastila reached for the dying woman's mind. She'd always had a talent for this sort of thing. Perhaps she could feel what was wrong, could do something about it. Because Revan_ shouldn't  _still be dying, they had healed her, there was nothing wrong with her…_

_The instant she made contact, Bastila was overwhelmed with an inescapable tide of darkness._

_Not_ Darkness _, no, this was something entirely different. Something different from what she'd honestly expected. She'd expected to find a mind consumed with hatred, with fury, so twisted and tainted by the Dark Side it was hardly recognizable as a person anymore. She'd expected corruption and madness, and little else._

_She hadn't anticipated despair._

_Opening up beneath her like the yawning void, blackness reaching for her, drawing her further inward._

_She'd tried. But it was exhausting, she was so_ tired _._

_Day after day, years upon years, one disaster after another…_

_She wanted to think she was accomplishing something, but it just got worse, and worse, and_ worse…

_Nothing would ever change, and she was so_ tired  _of trying._

_Lesami knew she hadn't died, not really. She could feel the pull back to the living world. But oblivion in the Force called to her. It called to her, soft and quiet, she could finally lay down all her cares, she could finally_ rest _. And she was so tired._

_The part of Bastila that was still entirely herself was taken aback. Revan was still fading because she_ wanted  _to. She'd given up. She would let herself slip peacefully into the Force, and that would be the end of it._

_For some reason she couldn't describe, the realization made Bastila furious._

_She didn't think about it, she wasn't fully aware what she was doing. It was instinct, anger made power, will made motion. One foot firmly planted in the physical world, Bastila groped for the mind drifting away from her, wrapped herself around it, pulled, pulled, with everything she had she_ pulled—

_Not just around it, she forced herself_ into  _it, pouring into Revan's blackened mind with light tempered by fury. No, she didn't get to die, not like this, not like_ this _, not when there were still questions to be answered, crimes to answer for, amends to be made, she_ wasn't allowed  _to surrender like this, not if Bastila had anything to say about it, she would—_

_And the mind she surrounded and was surrounded by responded, slowly at first. Because Bastila was right, there was still so much to be done, she couldn't leave it, not like this, not like_ this—

_Her eyes snapped open and she sprang out of bed, the lamp bursting into life at her touch. For a moment, her eyes were dazzled, but she quickly recovered, glancing frantically around the room, panic setting her blood to burning and her empty hands twitching. But there was nothing, she was alone, it was just a dream, she—_

In an abrupt moment of clarity, Bastila ripped it all away, surrounded herself with mental walls of thickest durasteel. And she was awake, back in her cage, the chill of the floor and bars against her skin contributing but little to her shivering.

Hands tight against her face, she squeezed her eyes shut. She gathered all her terror, all her shame, all her despair, filling her near to bursting, and she cast it out into the Force, where it could all fly far away from her.

But she couldn't. She couldn't even touch the Force. She was alone.

The first sob wrenched itself out of her throat before she could stop it. And then it was too late.

* * *

Cina glared at Carth over her caf. The arse had the nerve to just smile back at her like an idiot. "I didn't sleep well, okay? Shut up."

"I didn't say anything," he insisted, with a smirk that said everything.

"No, but your face is annoying enough words aren't necessary."

He snorted. "Mission has been a terrible influence on you."

That had Cina smiling, despite how completely awful she felt. Carth thought  _Mission_  was a bad influence on  _her?_  He clearly hadn't been listening when they'd talked about slicing the city infrastructure.

The brash little kid was out there somewhere, probably with Zaalbar in one of their safehouses they apparently had scattered all over the capital. After they were dragged off to meet this Gadon Thek person, Cina had offered to let them stay with her and Carth in the apartment they'd stolen. Safety in numbers, and all that — it wasn't impossible someone was still out there looking for them, considering the scale of that stunt they'd pulled yesterday. But Mission had waved it off, quick confirmed they had each other's com codes, and disappeared.

Well, disappeared after waiting for Zaalbar to extract a promise from Cina she wouldn't do anything stupid without calling him first. Wookiees did take their life debts seriously.

"So." Cina took a bite out of her protein bar — then she grimaced, turning a glare down at the thing. She hadn't thought these things even  _could_  expire. That's it, she was buying some real food later, she didn't care that their money problems had suddenly gotten far more urgent practically overnight. "We need credits, and we need them fast."

"What, don't have another windfall waiting in the wings?"

She shot him a glare. It had just been good luck there happened to be a sabaac tournament going on so soon after they arrived. She wasn't some sort of professional scam artist or anything.

… She didn't  _think_  she was. That didn't sound like the sort of thing she would be.

"This one's yours, Flyboy. I can't do everything around here."

Carth huffed, but as far as she was concerned he had absolutely nothing to complain about. She'd secured a place to stay, formed a working relationship with a local power, recruited a skilled marksman and a talented slicer,  _and_  acquired intelligence on where Shan was and when and how to get close enough to make an attempt at recovering her. She'd done nearly all his work for him. "I don't know. I still think we should try to convince Thek to lend us a swoop."

She shook her head. "He won't. We're not worth that much to him." Thek seemed to have some affection for the Republic, but handing over a speeder — one good enough to compete in the race at that — was far too high a price. People died in swoop races, all the time, and if whichever one of them did the flying managed to get themselves killed, losing the bike in the crash was more than he could afford to spend on them. Honestly, allowing them to wear his colours for the day was more than she'd expected, given how much face he could lose if they made complete arses of themselves.

"We could try to steal one."

Which, at the rate Carth was going, was almost guaranteed. "Onasi, that is the stupidest idea I've ever heard."

"Oh, come on, some of these gangs don't have the discipline to—"

"How many bikes do you think any of them have that are actually quick enough to handle this kind of race? I'd be surprised if the  _Beks_  have more than five, and they're one of the big fish around here. You don't find that kind of hardware sitting out on a concourse, Carth, those bikes are seriously expensive, and they take constant attention from professional mechanics to keep them running at peak. Not only would we have trouble stealing something so valuable, but you can be sure they'll recognise the thing when we turn up with it at the circuit. Which is like to spark a light before we even get started.

"No," Cina said, sharply shaking her head, "if we want any chance of getting close enough to nab Shan, we need to place high in that race, and to do that we need a  _lot_  of fucking credits. What I got from the tournament isn't nearly enough."

Carth winced — apparently the same thing had occurred to him, just hoping Cina would come up with some trick to pull it off. Or maybe that was from biting into his bar. Once he'd choked the shite down, he cleared his throat, washing his mouth out with a generous gulp of caf. "Right. And you have no ideas what we should do?"

"Fuck me, can you have a  _single_  original thought of your own?"

His face immediately hardened into something cold and stoney, his glare impressively intense compared to his usual light smirking. "I'm a fighter pilot, Cianen. I'm a little out of my depth here."

"I know, I—" Cina forced out a harsh sigh, one hand rising to rub at her temple. It didn't do a thing about her headache, of course. "I'm sorry. I just feel awful, I shouldn't take it out on you."

The statuesque severity vanished, replaced with a hesitant sort of concern. "Are you...okay?"

"Relax, Carth," she said, her eyes rolling of their own accord. "The Jedi magic holding my head together is doing just fine. I'm not going insane on you, I just didn't sleep well." Though, dreams about bodiless Jedi falling into an abyss of despair that never ended wasn't indicative of a perfect grip on reality, but there was no reason Carth needed to know about that. "And no, I don't have any ideas. Hunting a few marks for the Exchange is the only thing I can think of that  _might_  get us enough credits to meet the deadline, but I don't think either of us want to go there."

Carth sneered, shaking his head to himself. "No, let's not. We might just have to crash the party."

"That...would be risky." An understatement if Cina had ever made one. All the lower city gangs would be there, the Exchange and the Hutts, all their enforcers and their thugs and their mercenaries. Sneaking in wouldn't be difficult. Snatching Shan and making a break for it?

If Carth really wanted to kill himself, there were less painful ways to go about it.

"We'll work something out. If nothing else, we can always tail whoever wins her, break into their place, and kill everyone in our way."

The idea seemed to make Carth a little ill. But his head dipped in an uncertain nod anyway, fingers tightening around his mug. "Before they sell her to the Sith."

"Well, yes, obviously."

"And then we have to find some way to get all of us off planet and through the blockade."

"Let me fix  _your_  problem I'm currently working on before giving me new ones, okay? I'm just one woman, honestly."

Carth just smiled back at her — as though that weren't irritating enough on its own. One of these days someone was going to blast that stupid roguish smile off his stupid handsome face.

* * *

After spending a few days in the lower city, seeing actual sunlight was a little strange. Not  _bad_ , of course, just peculiar.

The air smelled a  _lot_  better, at least.

Cina had made her way to the upper city by herself. It was about time to bring in Asyr, but she had reasons of her own. Partially to check how much a high-end speeder bike actually ran for, partially to look around for any promising money-making opportunities, but mostly just to give herself a few hours away from Carth to think. He kept trying to talk to her, it was very distracting.

Her research on the net and talks with dealers were less than encouraging. Assuming the gangs were using tournament-standard sport bikes — which, given that Taris had been part of the professional circuit before the Sith took over, was quite likely — any model that would make them at all competitive could run them two million credits at the least, but more likely upwards of eight. (She didn't like the look of that one dealer, felt shifty to her.) A few hundred thousand credits had  _seemed_  like plenty of money a few days ago, but it was nowhere near enough. Wouldn't cover mercenaries to "crash the party" either. They would have to come up with the money somehow.

And that looked not at all promising. As one would expect, it wasn't exactly easy to make a million credits in under a week. Credits wouldn't be worth anything if it were. (Inflation was beginning to be a bit of a problem, actually, but wartime economies could be volatile.) She and Carth did have rather valuable skill sets, but the sort of people who  _valued_  those skills, and would be willing to part with that many credits that quickly just to borrow them, tended to be found on the less than wholesome side of the law. Even then, that was iffy. If they  _did_ hold down their gorge and sell their services to one criminal organization or another, she doubted that would be enough. Especially since those sorts of people would wait a bit for new associates to prove their trustworthiness before giving them the high-value jobs, they didn't have that kind of time.

Now that she thought about it, it seemed she knew quite a bit about how organized crime operated. That was...weird. Maybe she really  _had_  been a con artist, or something of the like. That would explain a lot...

Of course, all this was assuming either of them could actually fly well enough to place in the race, putting them within reach of Shan. There was no guarantee of that. She knew how to fly a speeder — it'd felt natural enough when she'd stolen one to chase after the thugs who'd snatched Mission and Zaalbar — but she seriously doubted she was  _that_  good. It didn't feel like a skill of hers. (Not that it was easy to predict what she'd be good at, these days.) Carth... _maybe_. He was a fighter pilot, which was hardly the same thing, but with a little luck he might be able to pull it off. When she'd floated the idea, he hadn't sounded  _entirely_  confident, but confident enough for Cina to run with for now.

It wasn't like she had any better ideas, and it wasn't like it even mattered. Whether Carth was good enough of a flier to make it was a complete non-issue if they couldn't come up with a bike for him to fly, it was so much pissing in the wind. But they simply  _didn't have the money_ , and it wasn't like she could just withdraw it from her expense account with—

Cina froze in the middle of the concourse, the skin at the back of her neck, all down her spine tingling, intense enough she had to fight a shudder. Slowly, she turned her head to her right, staring wide-eyed across the concourse at the bank of windows she'd just passed.

It was a bank. Well, not  _really_  a bank — they were involved in all sorts of money-related things, from investment to insurance, but the word "bank" was accurate enough to be getting on with. SFS, Senathi Financial Services, she knew the name, they had branches all throughout the core. She'd never stepped foot in one, though. Alderaan had a public bank, she'd never had any reason to use a private one.

But...looking at the swooping green and blue curves of their logo, she felt… She knew it. Not just knew the name, she  _knew_  it, it was  _familiar_.

Cina rubbed her thumb against the pads of her fingers. Biometrics. Most private institutions used biometrics as identification for many secure transactions. Not usually as a first resort, but the option was certainly available if someone happened to be without any proof of who they were.

She was mad. This idea was completely mad.

The inside of the bank was all white and silver and green, the lights bright enough and every surface polished enough it almost hurt. There were a few well-dressed people about — she probably stuck out a bit, she hadn't bothered buying anything nice — but she didn't pay them any mind. She went straight for the counter, walking up to an available protocol droid, its frame gleaming intense enough it seemed to glow. "Good afternoon." No reason to be rude just because it was a droid, after all.

"Good afternoon, ma'am." The droid's simulated voice sounded vaguely feminine, smooth and pleasant. "How may I serve you today?"

Cina tried not to flinch at the use of the word "serve" — how obsequious people programmed droids had always made her uncomfortable. "I'd like to make a withdrawal."

"Of course. If you would please provide your member card, along with identification issued by any recognized authority."

She forced a wince, giving the droid a sheepish shrug. "Ah, I'm afraid I lost those. My arrival on Taris was...less than perfectly smooth." If  _that_  wasn't an understatement…

"No matter. If you'd hold your hand out for me, please?" Even as it gently took her wrist, the droid reached under the counter, its hand reappearing with a rather clunky automatic hypo, the electronics attached to the thing making it more bulky than they usually were.

Cina felt an eyebrow tick up her face — honestly, genetic testing? SFS didn't fuck around.

"A slight prick." Cina didn't feel the high-end hypo pierce her skin at all, actually, the faint hiss of air released the only indication anything had happened. "There we are. One moment, please." The droid latched the hypo into a slot built into the counter, waited in companionable silence for the testing to finish. It didn't take long. The droid jerked, the first hint of emotion slipping into its voice, the barest sense of surprise. "Oh, my."

"Yes?"

"Apologies, my lady, but it seems there is a hold on your accounts."

Cina tried not to react to the honorific. Who the hell  _was_  she? "What kind of hold?"

"Ah, according to our records, you are deceased. The administrator of your group has refused to consolidate your accounts — otherwise, they would have been closed months ago."

She blinked. "Well, as you can see, I am quite alive."

"Yes, I do apologize for the mistake, my lady. Give me a moment, and I will correct it."

While the droid went through whatever process was necessary to end the hold on her accounts — apparently they were still open, so it shouldn't take long — Cina tried to stop her feet from shifting, her fingers from tapping at the counter. She tried to not look too suspicious. She couldn't help the feeling some employee of the bank would find out what was going on here, and…

She didn't know, really. The droid's abrupt switch to honorifics meant for nobility was making her nervous. Seriously, who the hell  _was_  she? She wavered for a moment, chewing on her lip, before deciding to not just come out and ask. Droids did tend to be less perceptive than biological beings, but it was still very possible it would notice how odd it was for her to ask what her own name was. And that would make any complications coming up  _far_  more likely.

She'd rather not be arrested for impersonating herself, thanks.

That and… Well, she couldn't help the feeling that she didn't really want to know. She wasn't certain she'd be happy with what she learned.

She was far more comfortable with violence than she was...entirely comfortable with, and she realized how circular that was, yes. Previously, her only real exposure to violence (that she could remember) was through fiction. People always… It was a very common trope, in virtually everything she'd read or watched, that someone who found themselves in a position where they killed someone would, well, angst over it a bit. If they weren't a villain of some stripe, there would always be some sort of personal moral struggle, sometimes subdued, sometimes so powerful it overwhelmed the narrative and she honestly found it annoying.

There had been nothing. Cina didn't know how many people she'd killed by now — the fight in the  _Endar Spire_  had gotten a bit fuzzy by the end, and rescuing Mission and Zaalbar, there had been too many explosions, too much fire and smoke, to be sure. There'd been a blank sort of shock, those first two soldiers she'd killed on the  _Spire_ , but she'd just...settled into it. It'd become easy. Something she didn't have to think about, something she was, she was  _good_  at. Something she was  _used_  to.

She didn't think whoever she had been was  _completely_  evil, no. "Cianen" certainly would have tried to help someone like Mission if she could, but going to the lengths she had… That had to be a holdover. Especially when slavery was involved. "Cianen" was  _morally_  opposed to slavery, but it wasn't...personal, to her. There had never been any reason for it to be, it didn't  _exist_  in the core, she'd never met a slave or even a former slave in her entire life. But now…

She wasn't just against slavery. She  _hated_  it. Whenever she allowed herself to think about it, that it was happening  _here_  of all places — not that she knew why that this was Taris specifically should bother her — she was overcome with a black, overwhelming rage, one that made it hard to think of little else. Part of her, a cold, vicious part of her, wanted to go to the Exchange, go to the Hutts, every property they held on this rotten planet, and utterly destroy them. Paint their halls with blood and consume them with fire, tear them apart piece by piece and rip them from the bedrock, until all that was left was a painful, but healing, scar.

The depth of her own hatred frightened her. She'd never felt this way about anything before.

But, however much she might despise slavery in particular, she did know quite a bit about how organized crime functioned. Enough that it couldn't just be from being taught about it (not that she remembered learning  _that_ ). More concerning, it didn't really...bother her, that much. Some stuff, yes. Contract murders, for example — euphemistically referred to as "bounties" — were a grey area. Too often, unsavory people with connections would use a third party to eliminate someone who annoyed them, or the powerful would do it to cripple political opposition, but sometimes?

If she could find and pay enough assassins to wipe organizations like the Exchange out of existence, she would do it. If she could annihilate the boards of the more exploitative of the corporate conglomerates, she would do it. If she could remove the most authoritarian and regressive individuals throughout the Republic bureaucracy, she would do it. She'd have them all killed, in a heartbeat.

Some people, she felt, simply needed to die. And she didn't particularly care how it was done.

A lot of the day-to-day bread-and-butter of organized crime she didn't have any particular problem with. Most of them operated primarily on the production and distribution of controlled intoxicating substances, which, well, she wasn't entirely sure why they were controlled in the first place. Yes, some of them were dangerous — the critical word there being "some" — but she didn't see why it was the government's business to say which drugs people were allowed to have and which they weren't. A lot of shitty, exploitative nonsense happened around the fringes, true, but most of that wouldn't be necessary if these cartels weren't operating outside the law in the first place. These substances being illegal  _created more suffering_  — the entire problem could be solved by legalizing them, then regulating the cartels like any other pharmaceutical company.

More often than not, the average person involved in organized crime did so out of desperation. The further away from the core, the harder life got. Out on the rim, the corporations controlled everything — the governments, the land, the markets, everything. Sometimes there weren't enough jobs to go around, and even the people who had them were often underpaid. (Or slaves, which was technically illegal for corporations licensed by the Republic, but it happened.) If the people needed to resort to theft and piracy to get by...well, Cina could understand that. It wasn't ideal, but the universe often wasn't.

At some level, this acceptance horrified her. That civilized coreworld academic part of her, it cringed at these sort of thoughts, it was just… But it was a quiet part of her, the smallest doubt, more confusing than it was controlling. Because, see, her entire life, everything she'd learned, everything she'd  _believed_ , that enlightened, civilized view of reality  _should_  be her primary influence, but...

The main problem was, Cina  _liked_  who she was. She  _liked_  Cianen Hayal. Her life wasn't perfect, of course, but whose was? She enjoyed her work, she enjoyed needling undergrads, she loved her family, and her friends. She was a bit opinionated, when it came to politics and such, but the Republic was less than perfect, especially these days — she had principles, okay, ethical principles, she couldn't help it. Her cousins thought she was a bit insufferable lately because of it, but she'd always thought  _they_  were a bit simple and shallow, so that road went both ways.

She wasn't even certain her cousins actually existed. She was half-tempted to try to call her parents back at home, but that sounded like a bad idea. The Jedi probably had actors waiting around just in case. That would just be...uncomfortable.

But, she didn't think she would like who she used to be. The  _my lady_  stuff, she had a theory percolating in the back of her head. Most core worlds that still had noble families were unlikely — Alderaan, Tepasi, Atrisia, core worlds were just too civilized for their nobles to slum about with criminals like she obviously had. Kuat was different though, she could be Kuati. Hapes was... _possible_ , but unlikely. (If for no other reason, she was too short to be Hapan.) Somewhere Tionese fit uncomfortably well.

The Tionese, and the Kuati to a lesser extent, tended to not have such a strong opinion about slavery, though. Not to mention, Cina  _did_  have the wrong accent — Kuati and Tionese languages were related, and separate from the Alsakani–Shawkenese group. But there was an explanation for that. She  _could_  have married into a less-than-reputable noble family. If it were Kuati, she could be from somewhere on the near Perlemian or the Shawken Spur. (The Kuati nobility were largely matrilineal, but while it was unusual it wasn't unheard of for a foreign woman to marry in, especially if she'd been born wealthy to begin with.) If it were Tionese, she could be from a little further out on the Perlemian — but not too far, the Alsakan character of the accent diminished quickly from Alderaanian influence.

Or perhaps, she was from the core, and had ended up being taken by slavers. There were far  _fewer_  slavers active in the core, but it did still happen. They could have taken her out to the Tion Cluster, where slavery was legal. And she'd managed to crawl her way back up to respectability. Probably with a lot of violence along the way.

That would explain a lot. Her accent. Her familiarity with the languages of Hutt slave species. Her knowledge and partially ambivalent acceptance of organized crime, while at the same time passionately loathing slavery. The ease with which she killed. If she had somehow fallen in with a Tionese crime family, all of it made sense.

Except the more academic knowledge she had, anyway, but it could be from before she was taken, or the Jedi could have put that in there as part of the Cianen persona. That didn't disprove the theory.

And if she  _was_  a Tionese noble… She didn't want to know. The Tionese were a bit…

If she was, she was  _out_. She didn't want to go back.

She liked who she was now. Even if she scared hers—

"And how much would you like to withdraw today, my lady?"

Cina jumped, forced her attention back on the droid. How much  _should_  she ask for? She had absolutely no idea how much money she had access to, or if whoever the "group administrator" was would be more likely to notice a larger sum vanishing. (Though, they'd likely notice the hold was taken off in any case, that might come back to bite her.) Having no better ideas, Cina closed her eyes, let out a slow, calming breath, emptied her head of thought as thoroughly as she could. Then she said the first thing that came to her, speaking from instinct. "Twenty million should do nicely, until I can get myself off-planet."

She had to hold back any reaction to the figure she'd just requested. Inflation had become something of a problem the last few years, but twenty million credits was still  _a lot_  of money. It'd just seemed...natural, that she would be carrying around  _twenty million credits_  in her pocket. That she'd need  _twenty million credits_  just to put herself up until the blockade was lifted.

(Okay, that made the Tionese theory somewhat less likely — if she'd spent any time at all as a slave, she doubted she would be nearly so accustomed to extravagance as it sounded like she had been. The slightly less unpalatable Kuati theory was looking a little better now. Still.)

And, a few seconds later, the droid handed her the credit chits, divided into manageable denominations. Just like that.

Trying to look innocent, Cina promptly fled before they could change their minds.

Well. She guessed their money problems were solved for the foreseeable future. She should go ahead and pick up a suitable racing swoop while she was up here.

And a pilot. She'd just remembered where they might have a perfectly suitable one waiting for their call.

* * *

"We have a problem, Captain. Get up."

Asyr blinked at the human doctor, taking in the tension in his shoulders, the flickering of his eyes. "What kind of problem?"

"The Sith kind." Zelka dropped the cloth bag he was carrying onto a nearby counter, started loading it up with hypos and meal packs and bottles of water.

Oh. All right, then. Setting her borrowed datapad aside, Asyr tipped onto her feet — then winced as pain ripped through her left knee, radiating up her thigh, nearly taking her to the floor. Damn it. Holding back an angry sneer, she grabbed the cane leaning against the side of the bed, propped herself up to her full height. "I'm assuming you're sending me out the back." She held out the pad toward him.

He snatched the thing out of her hand, stuck it in the bag. "Yes. You don't know the area, I'll send— Kenna!" One of the nurses, a human girl who looked to be barely out of adolescence, jumped, turning to blink at Zelka. "Take this—" He tossed the bag at her, she caught it with a surprised  _oof_. "—and take Captain Lar'sym out back. Take the stairs, find somewhere down a few levels to hole up. I'll call you as soon as the Sith are gone. If I  _don't_  call you, the other two said they're somewhere near a cantina on the lower levels, it's marked on the map on the pad. Get her out of here. Go. Go!"

They didn't need to be told again. Kenna scrambled to Asyr's side, moving to take some of her weight, but Asyr waved her off, fighting the urge to snarl at her. (The girl  _was_  just trying to help.) Asyr limped forward, leaning against the damn cane to take enough of the burden off her still healing knee it didn't protest too much. There was still a bit of twinging with every step, but not so much she couldn't walk. Just past the door out into the storerooms the girl caught up, leading the way through the maze of hallways and closets, bringing her to the rear end of the clinic.

They came out into a partially open-air alley, closed off above their heads but extending both sides to the end of the block. Over the noise of the city, Asyr picked out the thrum of heavy speeders, military grade — they probably only had minutes before Sith troops would be pouring into the alley to surround the clinic. Kenna swiped a card and punched a code into a keypad and a heavy door swung open, she led her inside before slamming it closed again. It was shockingly cold in here, a quick glance around revealed shelves and shelves of vials and samples, another storeroom for the clinic. Another door on the other side opened into a lab, unfamiliar machinery lining the walls, a handful of techs looking away from their work to blink up at them for just a second before turning away again. Kenna brought her across this one toward a hallway.

She immediately stopped, swiping her card again to open a narrow door just outside. They stepped into a maintenance access of some kind, small enough Asyr's limping gait brought her left shoulder bumping against pipes and ducts. The walked for a few more meters, coming to a narrow, twisting staircase, the grated metal making it partially transparent. With how tight it was, Asyr had a little trouble making it down, finally finding she could lean against the railing and lead with her left foot to take them with the least fuss.

She was still slow and awkward, though. She was trying to not feel too embarrassed about that.

Kenna led her down a few flights, through another maintenance shaft, and into a proper hallway. This place lacked the white and green theme of the medical complex Zelka worked out of, they must be out. They found a turbolift next, taking it down a few floors. Then Kenna led her through a few more halls, bringing her to—

Asyr blinked: they were walking into a cafe. A comparatively nice establishment, so far as such things on city worlds went, all woods and glass, everything smooth and clean, the air filled with the aromas of spices and breads and fruits and steeping caf. Kenna took a moment just inside, forcing her breath level. (Though, anyone observant would notice the sweat on her neck anyway.) And then she led Asyr up to the counter, smoothly rattled off her order to the droid there.

Okay…

A few minutes later had them sitting at one of the booths, Kenna with a drink of some kind and a pastry with far too much icing on it, Asyr with buns with nerf gravy and a bottle of water pulled from the bag. (She never had developed a taste for caf.) Asyr took a quick glance around before leaning over the table. "I thought we were going somewhere out of the way."

Kenna shrugged. "I doubt they're gonna search this far out, if they even search at all. And if they do, well, best look like we belong here, yeah?"

For a second she hesitated, but then nodded. She wouldn't know any better how to predict what the Sith would do in this sort of situation. This wasn't exactly her area of expertise — she was a pilot, she'd hardly ever fought on the ground, and had exactly zero experience in covert ops. So she pulled out her datapad and started scrolling through the news again, absently picking at her food.

The war had, of course, gone on without her. The Sith advance up the Perlemian had mostly been halted — despite a series of attacks over the last months, Tanaab hadn't yet fallen — but they were still eating away all throughout the Slice. Revan's plan, she knew, had been to pin most of the Republic fleet at the front lines on and around the Perlemian, while working her way through the Slice and all the way around the core to Yag'Dhul. She would block all the major trade routes from the core rimward, effectively splitting the Republic in two so it could be picked apart at her leisure. While her subordinates tied down the Republic by nipping away at systems in her wake, Revan had thrust through the mid-rim, the opening moves of the encirclement that would ultimately choke the Republic to death.

Fortunately, she'd been assassinated before she could get very far — Nanth'ri had signed a treaty to join the Sith just the week before. Ever since Revan's death, the Sith assault had been rather less focused, seemingly just blasting away at targets at random. But the border had still managed to crawl as far as Daalang.

Daalang was only a couple short hops away from Bothawui.

Luckily, so far as she could tell, the Sith had been making no moves to attack her people directly. Perhaps they didn't want to antagonize the Hutts — they'd remained mostly neutral in the war, but if the Sith kept gobbling up systems so close to their borders that might change. Perhaps they simply couldn't spare the necessary forces at the moment — hers was a martial people, they were more well-prepared for an invasion than most.

Perhaps Malak was simply too unbalanced to focus on the threat to his south long enough to deal with it. It was impossible to tell.

Revan, at least, acknowledged her people for the power they were. She'd heard rumors she'd tried to negotiate an alliance in the opening weeks of the war — and nearly succeeded, at that — and her planned invasion corridor neatly cut them off from the Republic without having to fight them directly. Malak, on the other hand, was a fucking idiot, and clearly had absolutely no idea what he was doing.

Honestly, she couldn't imagine how anyone could stomach following him. Aliens, sometimes…

They couldn't even have been waiting for an hour when Kenna's com started pinging. She twitched, letting out a startled  _eep_ , scrambling for the thing. "Doctor Forn? Are they gone?"

Asyr snorted. She certainly  _hoped_  they were gone — if anyone were listening in, that would be a very suspicious thing to open a conversation with.

"Oh, good. We'll be back in a few minutes."

"Actually, I thought it was about time I go down to find the Captain and the Professor." She'd been stuck in the clinic for more than long enough, she felt. At this point, she probably wasn't quite recovered enough to be of much use, but she still hated sitting around doing nothing. She'd be fine in a day or two, it was time to move on.

"Um…" The girl stared at her for a moment, wide-eyed. "Captain says she wants to go find the others." There was a short pause as she listened to Forn — she had the directional audio on, Asyr couldn't hear a thing. After a second, she gave the com a baffled sort of look, turning up to her again. "Ah, actually, one of your friends is up there right now. Cianen, was it? Apparently she was coming to pick you up. The Sith freaked her out a little, I think."

Asyr huffed. Having to backtrack  _would_  be a bit annoying, but she might as well. She didn't know  _exactly_  where she and Onasi had set up shop, after all. "Fine. Tell them we're coming." She twisted out of her seat, started limping for the door.

The girl led her back to the clinic along a much quicker, more direct route, taking a single lift all the way up. If she had to guess, she'd been concerned the Sith would have thought to cordon off the main thoroughfares, so she'd taken the sneaky way around. Which Asyr could only be slightly grateful for — she had the feeling getting up stairs on a cane would be harder than down them.

When she stepped back into the main room of the clinic, coming in through the back again, she froze, staring around with wide eyes. Everyone who had been in the tanks, every one, were laid out on the beds, bits of orange gel still clinging to hair and fur in a few places. They were still, but not with the stillness of a coma. No, every single one was dead.

"What happened?"

"The bloody Sith happened." Doctor Forn was suddenly standing at her side, cold fire in his eyes. "The officer wanted to interrogate them, but when I said they were all unlikely to wake up, he ordered me to euthanize them all. He watched me do it, refused to leave until it was done." And Forn wasn't taking it well, his clawless hands clenched at his hips, shaking with suppressed rage.

Asyr opened her mouth to speak, then thought better of it. Civilians didn't think of death in the same terms. She and Onasi would have to get off-planet, as soon as possible. They wouldn't have recovered in time to come with. Even if Forn could get them up and moving again somewhere down the line, the Sith would be here to collect them.

She'd heard stories of how prisoners of war were treated under Malak. It was better they were dead.

And there was Cianen, shooting her a crooked smile. "Well, look who's up and walking again. Getting cooped up yet? Feel like getting out of here?"

"Yes." She hissed the word out before Forn could say anything — and it did look like he'd been about to. It took a few minutes, suffering the human doctor's warnings to go easy on her knee for a couple weeks, thanking him again for his help. Cianen slipped him a credit chit at some point, waved off his protests, and then they were gone, stepping out onto the concourse just out the front door.

"This might be uncomfortable." Spoken in a whisper, Cianen's accent was rather less noticeable. She sidled a bit closer, taking her arm, started leading her slowly off to the right. "The humans up here a bit xenophobic, I'm afraid. Just, let me do the talking, and try not to scare anyone too much."

Asyr wanted to be annoyed at the suggestion, but she was probably right. The less enlightened humans did tend to find people like her frightening. "I shall try to contain my wounded pride." She wasn't sure the sarcasm was noticeable.

"Mm." Cianen rolled her narrower shoulder into her a bit — if she had to guess, suggesting Asyr could lean on her a bit if she had to. At least she was being subtle about it. Not that Asyr was even certainly Cianen  _could_  take her weight, she was such a tiny little thing. "By the way, the battle conductor is alive. We're working on a plan to get her back."

It took her a second to work out what Cianen was talking about. When she did, Asyr stumbled, her wrist turning about her cane nearly taking her to the ground. Whisper turning into a harsh hiss, she said, " _What?_  You're certain it's her?"

"Yes. We got the information off some locals, it's good."

"Tell me everything."

Cianen started at the very beginning, waking up in Forn's clinic. Claiming an apartment in the lower city, winning a sabaac tournament, rescuing a couple locals from slavers, winning their loyalty in the process — something to do with this Zaalbar's home culture, it wasn't entirely clear — getting in with one of the swoop gangs so they could be there when Shan was handed off. They had to get a speeder bike and fly in the race, do well enough they would be in the winner's circle at the end. Winning outright would be ideal, of course, but just being close enough to interrupt the exchange would do.

The whole time, Asyr just stared at the top of her head, blankly frowning to herself. Cianen couldn't have done all that. She was too...well, soft. She was a tiny little thing, she– She was a  _university professor!_  What in the Black was she doing, running around and lighting up gangsters, talking about starting a flaming turf war just so they could nab Shan and get away clean…

But she  _was_  different. It was hard to put words to it. She was dressed differently, of course, her clothes would have gone up with the  _Spire_. Rough leather and synthweave, looked like a down-on-her-luck spacer more than anything. An impression the battery packs at her hips and the blaster in the holster at the small of her back fit with perfectly.

Even the way she walked was different. It was subtle, but there, her gait steadier, sharper. And her voice, harder, lower. And she still smiled at her the same, a corner of her peculiar soft mouth curling with dark humor, but something about it was…

"You're not Cianen Hayal."

The smile faded, flickering down to nothing. "I'm the same person you met on the  _Spire_. It's just… Well, it's complicated. Ever since I hit my head during the battle… I think the Jedi rebuilt my mind at some point. I have no idea who I am.

"So anyway, how do you feel about checking out some swoop bikes?"

Asyr wanted to ask. How was she supposed to leave a comment like that alone, she'd have to be someone quite else to not be a  _little_  curious. But it was more than clear Cianen didn't want to talk about it. Which was perfectly understandable, she doubted she'd want to be interrogated about that either, if it were her.

They'd still be having a conversation about it later, of course.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hapes —  _In canon, the Hapes Consortium developed during a period of isolation after the destruction of the Lorell Raiders around 4050 BBY, a century before KotOR. However, I'm not certain the history of Hapes makes sense, for a variety of reasons. If nothing else, it's a little close to the core to just be conveniently forgotten/ignored for a few thousand years. I'm pushing their origin back eight to ten thousand years, to make their being permitted to develop their own new society in isolation more believable. This means they do exist in the KotOR era, and people know they exist, but they're fiercely isolationist, so have little to do with the outside galaxy. (They wouldn't be the only people like that, there are a few independent states here and there.)_
> 
> Captain —  _The observant might have noticed that Carth and Asyr both have the same rank, despite Carth being Asyr's commanding officer. The full explanation is complicated, but essentially Carth's responsibilities on this particular task force reflect a higher rank than he actually holds, largely due to his reputation and the Jedi rearranging things as they please to put someone they trust in charge. They can do whatever they like with how the task force is actually run, but they can't just make Carth a general because they say so. (It also doesn't help that Asyr was loaned from an allied force, that tends to complicate things.)_
> 
> * * *
> 
> _I'm sure Cina withdrawing twenty million credits from that particular account will have absolutely no unintended consequences whatsoever._
> 
> _A little longer getting around to it this time, I know. Been trying to work on a[collaborative HP project](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15294075)) with [LeighaGreene](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PseudoLeigha/profile). Also still getting distracted by other projects, so delays of a few weeks now and then aren't unlikely. I am focusing on this more than any other of my solo projects, so it shouldn't get too bad._
> 
> _Next chapter is about something completely different. Two more Taris chapters after that, and we're moving on to Dantooine._
> 
> _Until next time,  
>  ~Wings_


	8. Revanche — I

It barely took twelve hours for Cina to change her mind.

She'd woken up at an unreasonably early hour of the morning, it would be ages before the other two got up. Getting back to sleep had proven impossible — every time she closed her eyes, she found waiting for her a black void, sinking into her bones, drawing her deeper, deeper.

Every time she closed her eyes, she felt so  _tired_.

So she'd brewed some caf, set herself up at the table with her datapad. The caf was, for once,  _not_  completely horrible. She'd gotten a new machine yesterday, and why not, she had the credits now. Carth had been more than a little surprised when Asyr had shown up at the Bek base on a gleaming new swoop bike, Cina close behind her in an air speeder loaded up with supplies to last out the rest of their stay on Taris. Supplies that included  _real food_  for a change.

He'd been uneasy with how she'd gotten the credits to pay for it all, of course, but by now she expected Carth to winge whenever she solved one of his problems for him.

She was sitting at the table for maybe five minutes, paging randomly through news on the net, when she finally decided there was no use in continuing to pretend she wasn't thinking about something else. She'd thought she was okay with not knowing, she'd put it off, but now...

The credit chits wouldn't have her real name attached to them, but they  _would_  have the account number. She pulled up the card-reader, scanned one of the chits. It took a second to spot the account number in the page of information spat at her, though calling it a "number" was rather misleading — it was a three part code, eight characters then twenty-four then four, using numbers and letters pulled from the entire Republic standard character set. It was the first eight she wanted: that would be the planet code, identifying where the account had first been opened. She copied it with a couple taps, switched over to track down a node she could look it up at.

Though she did note the four-character code at the end, the account number: "1LES". Even as her fingers moved with little input from her, she mulled over that particular sequence. Account numbers were  _usually_  random, but they  _could_  be chosen by the group administrator. It was most likely, she thought, that those were the first three letters of her real name.

Which didn't narrow it down at all, of course. Judging by her own accent, she'd expect her name to be Alsakani; the old Alsakani languages were rather phonologically simple; there were comparatively few possible girl's names, and trillions of people of Alsakani descent, so they were all used thousands upon thousands of times. There was no such thing as a rare Alsakani name.  _Les-_  could be Lesa, Lesushi, Lesane, Lesami, Lesika, Lesoli, Lesuva, even  _Leth-_  names were possible too, they were classically spelled  _Lest-_  — the point was, there were a  _lot_  of options. There were  _millions_  of human women with names that started with those three letters.

She copied the planet code into the search bar, the result popping up an instant later:  _Shawken_.

She was from Shawken. Or, at least, the group  _had been opened_  on Shawken. There was no way of knowing whether she was actually form there or not. She might have just—

No...

No, she was remembering something. It was called... What was it called? Mase... Maselai? Mashilai?

" _Are you going to mope in here the whole time?"_

Mathilnai. It was Mathilnai. Shawken was an old world, one of the Core Founders, the cities long since spread to overwhelm the entire globe. Save for a few places, here and there — portions of the natural world had been preserved, so well as was possible on an ecumenopolis. Near the tropics, along the shore of a great sea (now hidden from above by endless metropolis) stretched one of these protected zones, containing a resort destination, a beach. It was called Mathilnai.

" _I'm not moping. I'm reading."_

Cina rubbed at the side of her head, despite how useless she knew it was. The dull ache at her left temple wasn't going to go away just from poking at it.

Her family had had a vacation home, in a town just south of the beach. They'd...

There was a library, there. An  _old_  library, or at least an old-fashioned one. There were some datacards, but many of the shelves had been filled with books,  _hundreds_  of books, some so old the leather covers were creased, dust gathered on the pages. She remembered, she...

The last time she'd been there, there'd been... Something had been wrong. She'd spent most days hidden away in the library, she hadn't wanted to go out. She was afraid people would know, and if people knew, her parents would get upset again, and...

And her cousin Desa didn't understand, he didn't know, he, he just wanted her to come out and play with them, the rest of them, like she usually did. (How old had she been? Eight? Nine?) And she hadn't wanted to think about it, she wanted to forget about it, read until she forgot, she wanted to be left alone, she just wanted him to  _go away_ —

 _ **It**_   _came again, without her meaning to, and she was suddenly too full, like breathing in steam, but far more than her lungs could handle, making her feel hot, and light, and bigger than she was. And then it was pushing out of her, without her meaning to, the lamp was whipped off its stand, crashing against the ceiling, Desa was thrown back, tumbling over, fetching against a bookshelf—_

 _And Desa was crying, scared more than hurt, Father looked even more scared, telling her she had to be careful, she had to keep it_ _ **in**_ _, but she_ _ **couldn't**_ _, he didn't understand, it was too_ _ **big**_ _, when it came she couldn't hold it, she was getting so_ _ **tired**_   _of holding it inside—_

Cina frowned.

Slowly, cautiously, her free hand moved to her waist. She flipped the top off one of the leather pouches there, the longest one. And she pulled out the thin, metal tube inside.

She held a dead Jedi's lightsaber in her hand, staring at it, her thoughts moving thick and sluggish.

She'd read about Jedi, of course. What child didn't, at some point or another? Jedi trained in the use of lightsabers, but while the technology involved was comparatively simple nobody else used them, for any purpose. They were surprisingly unwieldy, see. The "blade", for lack of a better term, was essentially weightless, but ionized — it moved too easily, but at the same time it pushed and pulled against the air, nearby objects, in subtle but unpredictable ways. Ordinary people who got their hands on one more often than not ended up accidentally cutting off something important.

But Cina...

It felt natural, holding this exotic weapon in her hand. It'd felt natural, pulling it out to carve through the ceiling into this apartment. (Ignore for the moment that she  _had_  almost accidentally cut off something important, that was from the ceiling collapsing, not the lightsaber itself.) It'd felt natural, slicing off the binders restraining Mission and Zaalbar.

She'd essentially used a plasma cutter within  _millimeters_  of their unprotected skin. And she'd just...done it. She hadn't even thought about it, just,  _snap-hiss-slice-slice_ , done.

Somehow, it hadn't struck her until just now how completely absurd that was.

Also? When she'd been a child, she could  _move things with her mind_.

She...

Son of a bitch. Mission  _had_  had her there.

 _Cina was a bloody Jedi_.

...

Well. She certainly wasn't getting back to sleep  _now_.

* * *

" _He still thinks he can buy me."_

 _Noshev's breath froze in his throat, choking on the chill on the air. It wasn't a_  literal  _chill — the bare little ready room he'd been led to after docking with the_ Vindicta  _was a little colder than he was fully comfortable with, but it wasn't any worse than it'd been a moment ago. It wasn't a chill on the air, but one on Lesami's voice, in her eyes, staring back at him without any expression, any life at all._

_In the blink of an eye, she wasn't his sister anymore, and Noshev was alone in a room with an unhappy Dark Lord of the Sith._

_It took a moment for him to clear his throat, shake off his unease enough to speak. "Forgive me, Your Excellency—" Noshev was a little proud of himself, for remembering to use her newly-assumed title, he hadn't slipped and said her name once. "—but I'm afraid I haven't been clear. This isn't a, a bribe. Our father wishes to—"_

" _Cumal po lai Revas hasn't been my father for a long time." The words were still wreathed in ice, but there was less anger beneath them, something more...exasperated, exhausted._

 _Noshev tried not to wince — he shouldn't have said that, he'd known Lesami had had some unspoken issue with their parents for...well, as long as he could remember, honestly. Apparently, he had to watch his pronouns too. "_ My  _father, he doesn't intend to, to— His offer of an alliance is genuine. He has spoken with like-minded people of influence all throughout the core, and they all agree that—"_

"People of influence _," she drawled, her voice black and thick with disdain. "Even in your diction, you betray the fundamental character of this..._ proposal _." This last word was said in a faint snarl, her lips curling with disgust. "I get the feeling you're not very good at this, my lord."_

_He could only meekly shrug. However peculiar it was to hear his elder sister of all people call him that, she was nowhere wrong. He meant, he was a bloody music student, he didn't have the training to negotiate what was essentially a treaty with a foreign head of state. Father had chosen to send him because they'd always gotten along — no matter how many years it'd been since they'd actually met and however young he'd been at the time — but he was thinking that had been misguided._

_It had started before he'd been born, but he'd long learned there were decades of ill will between Lesami and their family. Perhaps someone she wasn't actually related to would have been a better choice for an envoy._

_Noshev took a long breath, pushing back the hot anxiety itching at his throat as best he could. "I'm afraid I don't understand, Your Excellency."_

" _No, you wouldn't. It's quite clear House Reva has no idea what I'm trying to accomplish here." Lesami pushed herself to her feet, stalked over to the window overlooking the bustling docking bay. As the vids leaked from her nascent Empire had suggested, Lesami didn't usually wear the full Revan getup — this looked much like a navy admiral's uniform, though cast in the silver-black Sith colour scheme, extra gold and white accents here and there the only concessions to the fact that she was essentially the queen of a thousand worlds now. She didn't even wear the mask most of the time, from their guesswork only donning it for certain formal occasions and when she expected a fight._

_Of course, she was still intimidating enough without all that — he didn't miss the lightsaber hanging at each hip._

" _I'm not surprised, of course." Lesami's arms lifted to fold over her chest, her shoulders rising and falling in a harsh scoff. "He's always thought he could buy me. My forgiveness, my love." Noshev winced at the derision thick on the air. "And now my mercy."_

_The word, the way it was said — softly, casual, as though she were commenting on something inconsequential — had a shiver running down his spine. "It's not like that, Lesami."_

" _But it_ is _, Noshev." He winced — he hadn't noticed he'd used her name. She looked back at him over her shoulder, face still eerily blank, her eyes cold and heavy. "It's been this way since I was thirteen. He threw money at me back then, hoping it would soften me toward him, assuage his own guilt. I took it, of course — it was money, and they don't exactly pay Jedi — but he didn't get what he wanted from me. So he sent me more, and more, and more, invited me to vacations and weddings, theatres and dinners packed with the society elite of the core, trying to find something that would buy me. And he still does it, he never bloody gives up._

" _And now?" Without a gesture from her, without even a glance, the datapad on the table, the beginnings of a contract still sketched across the display, gently lifted into the air. "He and all his wealthy and powerful friends hope to get out in head of the coming revolution. They know I'll win, ultimately, and they think they can bribe their way into my favour, by my good will preserve their assets and their influence. Perhaps I'll even offer them new opportunities to acquire greater power and wealth._

" _But if these blind fools think I can be bought, they have catastrophically misread me. I have only one response to this_ offer _." Her right eye twitched, just slightly._

_The datapad erupted in an explosion of hissing and cracking, sparks flying to pour against the table. Noshev jumped to his feet and scrambled back, nearly tripping over the legs of the chair, even as the pad exploded, shards clattering down to the table, the air filling with the acrid smell of overheated electronics. His hand came unconsciously to his chest, heart pounding painfully against his ribs._

" _There will be no alliance."_

_Noshev jumped — he'd been so busy with the exploding datapad he hadn't noticed Lesami move. She was standing right in front of him now, less than a foot away. Now that she was so close he could feel it, a charge on the air, like standing too close to an energy shield, the taste of a lightning storm undercut with encroaching cold, ice pressing lightly against his skin. He moved to back away a step, but her eyes narrowed in a glare, and he was frozen in place, his limbs refusing to move, he couldn't even look away._

" _If your lord thinks there ever_ could  _be an accord between us, he terribly misunderstands the foundational principles of this institution. When I do conquer the core — and make no mistake, your vaunted Republic cannot and will not stop me — he and his ilk will see their fortunes change quite considerably. If they are lucky, they will get out of it with their lives. House Reva would be wise to not expect special treatment."_

 _Her hand came up, clenching tight around his lapel, just under his throat. If he could run, if he could cry out, but he couldn't, he couldn't_ move _, he could barely breathe. Sweat pouring down his face, his limbs going numb with terror, he didn't even notice his feet had left the ground. Lesami dragged him across the room, shortly coming to the door. It hissed open on its own, she hadn't reached for the controls, revealing the sterile grey hallway beyond, the line of soldiers and pair of unfamiliar Jedi that had escorted him from his ship an hour ago._

_With a contemptuous flick of her wrist, Noshev was dropped stumbling into the hall, his shaky legs quickly failing him, stumbling to his hands and knees on the hard metal floor. "The Lord wishes to return home. Escort him back to his ship."_

_A moment later, before one of the Sith soldiers had pulled him to his feet, the air had warmed what felt like ten degrees, the deadly electricity surrounding him swiftly fading away. Lesami had left._

_Noshev let out a breath of relief, even to his ears the sigh sounding far too much like a whimper._

* * *

"Mister Nallas? He's ready for you now. Go on in."

Popping smoothly back to his feet, Yani gave his client's assistant a smile. It felt rather more brittle than normal.

With a final girding breath, he walked through the door, bringing himself immediately face-to-face with Cumal po lai Revas. "Yani, good to see you as always." The man firmly clasped his hand with both of his, lined face splitting with a grin. Cumal was about a decade older than Yani, his age thinly showing around his eyes and lips, a few streaks of silver shot through brown hair. But his dark eyes were still sharp, his grip strong.

"Thank you, my lord, you as well."

His client's eyes narrowed in a false glare. "How long have we known each other?  _Cumal_ , please." The grin returned, so abruptly he'd think it had never left. "I don't mean to suggest you're unwelcome, but, forgive me, I thought our monthly meeting was next week. Sashaiva didn't go over her limit again, did she?"

"No, nothing like that." Yani hesitated for a second. "There's been a...development. I thought you should know, in case, ah, there's any response you wanted to make."

"Oh, yes, pick a seat, then."

This office, after so many years working with Cumal, had become intimately familiar. The floors covered in thick carpet a rich blue, the walls dark wood and gleaming chrome, interrupted here and there with framed stills and certificates and tall bookshelves — holding  _actual books_ , the Revas were famous eccentrics in that way. Just behind the slightly disheveled-looking desk was an entire wall of window, looking out over the glimmering spires of Elumanai, luxury housing all red brick and silver and creeping green as far as the eye could see, air speeders zipping between the peaks as quick and confident as birds through a forest.

Closer to the door was a circle of plush armchairs around a low table of metal and glass, strewn with a few data and sketchpads. Also, he noticed, a coloring book and a handful of pastels — one of Cumal's grandchildren must have been by recently. Yani settled into one of the chairs, setting his bag down at his side.

"I don't suppose I could talk you into taking a brandy this time."

Yani  _did_  actually consider it, but only for a second. "Ah, no, thank you, not this time." He was trying to hide his anxiety, and holding a drink would just make it far too obvious. Even digging into his bag for his pad he was having far more trouble than he should, his fingers shaking, clumsy enough he kept fumbling the folders as he paged through them.

"Too professional by half, you are. There's nothing wrong with relaxing now and again."

For perhaps the hundredth time, Yani shrugged off the sentiment. He  _did_  know how to relax, of course —  _Cumal po lai Revas_ , of all people, simply wasn't someone he was entirely comfortable around.

Cumal sank into a seat across from him with a light sigh. He leaned back, crossing his feet on the corner of the table, and paused to take a sip from the snifter of brandy in his hand before speaking. "Well, as you are so determined to get on to business. What did you have for me, Yani?"

"You may wish to..." He trailed off, biting at his lip. His fingers tapped idly at the edges of his pad, and it took some concentration to stop his knee from bouncing. He had absolutely no idea how this conversation was going to go. "I mean, this is... It may come as a bit of a shock. Just a forewarning."

That just seemed to make Cumal more interested. At least a shade of severity had entered his expression, the reckless grin swapped for something more quiet, attentive. Even he could take some things seriously when called for. "Consider my breath bated." Or maybe not...

It took a few attempts for him to actually say it. The content wasn't the problem, but the monumental implications of what he was about to say, that was what had the words lock in his throat, so hard he felt he could barely breathe. Eventually, after an embarrassingly long moment, he got it out. "You were right. She's alive."

Cumal hardly reacted. He stared at Yani, long and hard, so still he hardly seemed alive, more like a statue made in his likeness. Finally he blinked, slowly, his lips parted. "You're certain."

Despite the grievousness of the situation, he still felt the shot to his professional pride. "Her primary account was accessed from a branch office on Taris. Her identity was confirmed through a genetic test. Here, I had a still ripped off the security feed." He blew the picture up until it filled the screen, slid the pad across the table.

And Cumal went completely still again, staring at the image — a human woman from the waist up, dressed in cheap, faded clothes, dirty and bruised, hidden weaponry conspicuously hinted at by the power cells clipped to her belt. He stared, for long moments. Then he turned, slowly, toward his desk, the collection of stills propped up there. Holos of his family.

It wasn't visible from here, but Yani remembered the holo he was probably thinking of. A young woman, sixteen or seventeen, dark hair let out in graceful waves, one arm thrown around the shoulders of a slightly older man, both of them caught in a storm of laughter, pinking faces overcome with matching grins. It was the last time, to his knowledge, that Cumal's daughter had ever set foot on Shawken, over fifteen years ago now. She'd been lovely, of course, the fine white and blue dress perfectly chosen, looking for anything like an ordinary girl, innocent and harmless.

Though even back then she'd been anything but. Look closely under her arm and there was a noticeable bulge, not quite hidden by the folds of her dress. Apparently, she'd been unwilling to set aside her lightsaber even long enough to attend her brother's wedding.

It'd been years now, and he still hadn't gotten used to the idea. He didn't know what to do with the fact that his most valuable client's only daughter just so happened to be Revan.  _The_ Revan. Honestly, he tried to pretend Lesami po si Revas and Revan were two completely different people. If only for the sake of his continued sanity.

"I knew it." Cumal was smiling, a thin, crooked sort of smile, a soft note of humor on his voice. "I bloody knew it. Told you the whole time, didn't I? Two Jedi were supposed to have finished her? No, I didn't believe it for a second. There's nobody yet who's gotten one over on my Lesami."

That wasn't entirely true — despite how the legend that had formed around Revan during the War had made it sound, it had been a bit touch and go for a little while there. As Supreme Commander, Revan  _had_  lost battles. Fewer and fewer as the War had gone on, true, likely because she'd learned to pick them better. But even toward the end, fighting against the Republic, she hadn't been infallible. The Sith  _had_  been pushed back, a few times. Granted, not very often and never for very long, but  _still_.

And he did have to admit he'd never heard of Revan even being injured, before Deralia. But if she had been, the Republic and later the Sith probably would have covered it up. There was power in a reputation like hers, after all.

He knew all that rationally but, he had to admit, when Cumal had refused to close her accounts, claiming to believe she was still alive no matter what the Republic or the Sith said, part of him had acknowledged the point. She... Well, she was  _Revan_. With the stories he'd heard of her exploits against the Mandalorians, it  _was_  hard to believe a single Jedi Master and a half-trained apprentice (at the time) could possibly manage to kill her. It was childish, silly, but he'd heard too much, Cumal had been so certain, Yani hadn't been able to shake the thought he might be right.

Turned out, that irrational belief in her ability to survive against all odds had been entirely correct.

"What is she  _doing_ , though?" Cumal picked up the pad, frowning down at the security still. "Dressed like that... Well, I'd almost think she's trying to keep it secret, that she's still alive. But if she is, I'd think she'd be smart enough not to withdraw twenty million credits from an account under her real name."

Yani shrugged. "I really couldn't say. Desperation, perhaps? Taris was recently put under a total blockade. She might not have intended to be stuck there."

"Mm." For a few seconds longer, Cumal stared at the image of his definitely-not-dead daughter, brandy idly swirling in one hand. "Well," he said, sliding the pad back across the table, "I'll be wanting to open a new line of credit. Private, attached to one of the external group numbers."

"Can I ask what for?"

"If we didn't get wind of it before, Lesami's obviously travelling under a pseudonym. I don't have any way to contact her, I don't know what she has planned, so if I want to make contact again I'll have to pay a professional to do it for me." With a crooked smile, shoulders lifting in a light shrug, he said, "The last communication we had was...well, less than civil."

Yani almost had to snort at that. When she'd returned at the head of the Sith, Cumal had tried to make contact several times, offering his support (and the family's wealth and influence) in her revolution she had going on. She never responded, so he'd sent one of his sons into then-newly-declared Sith space.

Noshev  _had_  gotten a one-on-one meeting with her, but it hadn't gone well. Apparently, he'd said something to make Revan quite angry — by the way he'd spoken of it, there'd been a moment he'd been certain his sister was about to kill him.

"But, things are quite different now. Maybe it'll go better this time." Cumal said it lightly, on the edge of bouncing, a hopeful tone that rang only slightly false.

Yani was even less confident than he was. He didn't know exactly what their disagreement was about, he hadn't considered it his business, but it didn't really matter, in the end. He just had to remember Noshev's face when he'd described his encounter with her to know there was little chance of an easy reconciliation.

But he didn't bother saying anything. Cumal would do what he felt like, no matter what Yani said. As he always did.

* * *

_The second she walked in the door, Saul knew something was wrong._

_He couldn't claim to have known Lesami very well or for very long. They'd first met a little less than a year ago now, when the irritatingly overconfident Jedi had appeared at the frontlines, explained to him her whole Revan scheme, asked for his cooperation. It'd sounded ludicrous at the time, but he'd agreed anyway. While the Order had been stingy as hell she'd brought a dozen Jedi with her, so putting up with her eccentricities had seemed like a small price to pay for the mystical assistance._

_Of course, by now he realized her confidence was mostly justified._

_More than her posture or her gait — it was hard to pick up much through her ridiculous Revan armor anyway — it was a feeling on the air. A subtle intensity, a sharpness, a sense of imminent violence, motion restrained. Like a caged predator, Saul had the sense not to go poking at her._

_Lesami took a few even steps across the living room of her apartment, stopping to stare out the long bank of windows overlooking the capital district. She stood there, still and silent, for long moments._

" _So, how did it go?" Saul had to hold back the childish urge to shush Grethar — just because he knew not to go poking at her didn't mean everybody was so cautious._

_Her fists clenched at her sides, a long, hissing breath leaked out from behind her mask. Then she was whipping it off her face, turned and threw it away from her, spinning through the air so quickly it was but a blur, clanging to rest out of sight in the kitchen. Breaths coming thick and heavy, she kicked over one of the little side tables, the pot softly dropping to the carpet. Until she kicked that too, the ceramic pot shattering as her boot struck it, dirt scattering across the previously pristine white carpet, peculiar red-purple leaves torn and dying. Leaning half over, gloved fingers burying themselves her hair, she let out a frustrated scream._

_Saul could_ feel  _it, itching at his ears and battering him over the head. Before he could consider whether he should be doing anything, Alek was already on his feet and across the room. In a blink they were holding each other, whispering, Saul couldn't tell what from here._

_He pretended not to notice the more suggestive signs of affection. He knew full well what was forbidden to Jedi, and he personally thought it idiotic. It was easier to cover for them if he claimed not to know anything._

_Sounding a bit unsettled, Grethar said, "I guess that means it went badly."_

_Saul shot him a look. "You always were perceptive, Marshal."_

" _Go to hell, Karath."_

" _Don't you two start again." Lesami was walking toward the circle of armchairs alone, Alek having disappeared somewhere. She let her ridiculous cloak drop to the floor, sank into one of the open chairs, pulling off her gloves finger by finger. Her brow was furrowed, more obviously drawn with exhaustion than usual. "I'm really not in the mood for your bickering right now."_

_Saul felt an eyebrow twitch. Lesami might be becoming increasingly important to the war effort, but the both of them still outranked her by quite a bit — anybody else talking to him like that would see consequences for it. Not that he was actually offended, it was just amusing._

_Besides, at this point Saul was only her superior officer as a formality. She'd been the one giving him orders for months now._

_Forcing his voice light, casual, he asked, "So, I suppose they didn't take it seriously?"_

" _Of course not. Bloody idiot senators," she muttered sulkily. (Her tone almost put a smile on his face — he forgot how young she was sometimes.) "They didn't believe a fucking word. So certain the Mandoade will stick to the Perlemian and the Hydian, that the fleets at Corsin and Taanab are enough to hold them out of the core. I_ tried  _to point out Onderon is only a few short hops from Zeltros, where they could easily hit_ all the southern core _, but did they listen? Nooo..."_

_Grethar cursed under his breath in his native tongue, his shaggy head shaking. "Well, what did you expect? Civilians are idiots."_

_Nodding along, Saul said, "There really should be a service requirement to sit on the Defense Committee."_

" _That'll never happen." Lesami let out a harsh, dismissive scoff, her lips curling. "You know the kind of people who become senators, right?"_

" _They're your kind of people." Alek had reappeared with a steaming mug of something, handing it to Lesami before heading back for his seat. He wasn't_ entirely  _wrong, there — Saul knew Lesami had been born to a ludicrously wealthy noble family. How else could a Jedi afford a private apartment on the upper levels of Galactic City?_

_Both hands wrapped around the mug, Lesami glared through the steam at the other Jedi. "I wouldn't say that. But I do know these people. I doubt there's anyone on that blasted committee who understands the strategic situation as we do. Bloody idiots are going to hand the Mandoade the core, and blame us for fumbling the war afterwards, just you wait."_

" _No, they won't. They're war leaders: the Mandos will execute them all. Won't have the breath to go blaming anyone."_

" _Shut up, Alek, you know what I mean."_

 _Saul paused for a moment, turning the thought over in his mind. A glance at Grethar showed a similarly contemplative look on his face — at least, he thought so, he'd never gotten particularly good at reading alien expressions. He hesitated another moment. It was a rather...extreme course of action. The political consequences if they failed could be catastrophic. And the precedent it would set if they_ succeeded...

_With a last girding look shared with Grethar, Saul cleared his throat. "Grethar, a few of our colleagues, and myself have been looking into a solution for our...organizational issues. I doubt we could get everything arranged in time to prevent the Mandos from getting into the core, but maybe, just maybe, we'll at least be able to push them out."_

_Lesami blinked. "I can't imagine how you'll manage that. The Ministry is the problem, and with Sek-shoral at the top — who makes a bloody political appointee Supreme Commander during a war, honestly..."_

_There was nothing Saul could say to defend Sek-shoral — he didn't disagree, the man was a liability. "We identified the same problem. He's tying one hand behind our backs, forcing us to fight on the defensive against an enemy that holds no quarter. It's a political calculation and nothing but: How many lives and credits are these rim worlds worth, to his ilk? This war will see us all dead at this rate, inevitably. But, we think, if we can get a like-minded individual to replace him, we could reorganize our forces to take the fight to the Mandos. It might be too late already, but with a more aggressive strategist at the helm we might just have a chance."_

" _It's not a bad idea, but good luck getting the Committee to agree. Sek-shoral's their man."_

" _We're already in talks with Minister Delko. He's on board." Grethar chuckled at Lesami's expression, seeming inordinately proud with himself for surprising her. "We just have to give him a name. If it's one he likes, he's promised he'll wring arms until the rest of the Committee signs off on it."_

" _Did you have someone in mind?"_

_Saul didn't say a word, and neither did Grethar. He just stared at her._

_It only took a few seconds for Lesami to figure out what they were not-saying. She rolled her eyes, and said, her voice thick with a scoff, "Very funny, boys. Be serious, who are you really thinking?"_

" _I think they_ are  _being serious, Lesami." For his part, Alek sounded amused, his eyes practically dancing with contained laughter._

" _You're fucking kidding me. It was hard enough just getting a mysterious no-name Jedi a commission, now you want to put me in charge of the whole bloody military? You really think Delko will go for that?"_

_Saul shrugged. "It might take some convincing. But I don't think you realize how popular Revan is already. That damn mask is everywhere now. They might go for it just for the boost to morale. And politics, heroes are good for elections. Besides," he said, lips tilting into a teasing smirk, "didn't you say you wanted Revan to be as visible as possible, so the Mandos couldn't possibly miss you? What better way than to make you Supreme Commander?"_

_By the heat of the glare she shot him, Lesami found that argument particularly irritating. He just smiled back at her._

_Saul'd won and, as annoyed as she might be, Lesami knew it._

* * *

"Admiral? Could I have a moment in private?"

Saul Karath turned from the viewport — the nightside of Taris floating above him, a million twinkling lights winking over his head, like the sky denser and more colorful — to face the officer next to him. A face he recognized above the muted silver and black of an IIS analyst, a face that made him nervous, a nervousness that had nothing to do with the bright red of her eyes, the harshly-angled tattoos darkening her skin, the crown of stubby horns.

No, his anxiety had a very specific cause: he remembered what assignment he'd given this particular analyst. If Kanyr Sheq had come to him it could only be about one thing.

He paused a moment, just for a breath, to force his heart down from where it'd leapt up his throat. "My quarters, Major Sheq. I'll be with you in a moment."

Kanyr nodded, turned smartly on her heel to disappear across the bridge. He didn't move immediately, took another moment to stare up at the stillness of Taris filling the sky, loom over a couple of the bridge officers. Once he felt a respectable amount of time had passed, he nodded to Rahn, stepped off the bridge.

It wouldn't do to appear  _too_  concerned with what Kanyr had to tell him, after all.

When he stepped into his office, Kanyr was waiting at his desk, sitting with her legs folded at the knee and hands limply hanging off the end of the armrests. Her expression was empty, anxiety hinted at only in the slightest twitching of her foot. Someone less familiar with her wouldn't notice. Saul didn't waste any time, moving straight for his chair on the opposite side. "I do hope this isn't another false alarm."

Kanyr shot him a glare two shades short of insubordinate. She pulled a datapad out of a pocket on the inside of her jacket, fiddled with it for a moment. Then she set it down, gently, one edge tapping against the metal of his desk before slowly laying it level.

One glance at the screen, and Saul was taken with a full-body twitch, his throat blocked again with a throbbing that had no business being there. He picked it up, twitching eyes skimming over text, jumping up now and again to stare at the face in the image. It only took him a brief moment to get the picture, each second turning his fingers numb, his brain afire with distracting tingles.

He took a long, slow breath, desperately reaching for a calm that evaded him.

"You're certain this time." His voice sounded sort of calm — calmer than he felt, at least — though unsteady enough he was glad they were in private.

"I was certain last time." His chastising glance seemed to have little effect on her. "Yes, I'm certain. False positives from facial recognition  _do_  happen — there are simply too many humans and not enough variety in their features to distinguish them reliably. But a false positive on  _genetic_  I.D.? What are the chances of that, one in  _quadrillions?_  No," she said, head sharply shaking, "there's no mistake.

"Of course, there was no mistake last time either." Her voice had turned a bit reproachful, shooting him a hooded glare. "That  _was_  Her Excellency on Coruscant."

"You can't possibly know that."

Kanyr closed her eyes for a moment, taking a slow breath in and out through her nose. She leaned forward, enough to glance over the edge of the pad, with a few swipes of her finger opened another file. "Shan's task force was seen over Coruscant. They travelled up the Namadii Corridor rimward to Dorin, then trailing through Agamar. They were last seen at Garqi. I assume they were headed for one of our assets along the border — I wasn't aware they had intelligence on any of them, but what else could they be doing up there?

"Of course, then they got wind of our little trap here. It's not far, here to Garqi, it fits the timeline. A couple days later, Her Excellency shows up at a bank. I tried to trace her back on the public security cams, but there are too many gaps — I suspect she's holed up in the lower city, their eyes there have been out for centuries.

"But," she said, pointing up with one finger, " _after_  she stopped at the bank, she went to a clinic, a few blocks away, run by a known Republic loyalist by the name of Zelka Forn. Run back the feed a few days, and she's being dragged into that same clinic, in pretty bad shape — dragged in by Carth Onasi, of all people. I followed them back to a ruined escape pod the ground teams have identified as originating from the  _Endar Spire_.

"Now, back on Coruscant, there was a last-minute change to the crew manifest. At the request of the Jedi, they took on a civilian, a xenolinguistics professor from the University of Aldera named Cianen Hayal. Someone did a hell of a thorough job on her footprint — official docs, family and economic history, academic work going back about a decade, everything carefully backdated and duplicated in all the proper places." Her lips tilted in a smile, a portion of her uncharacteristic solemnity thawing. "They're good, but I'm better."

He didn't doubt that — the Zabrak tendency toward enthusiastic, single-minded dedication was quite useful when harnessed properly. While she'd been talking, Saul had been paging through the file she'd compiled on this Hayal, annotated with her own comments. A lot of it went over his head — espionage was  _not_  his game — but he hadn't needed her to hint at it aloud to get the upshot. "You believe Cianen Hayal is a false identity."

"Yes," she said, her head bobbing in a forceful nod. "Her records were carefully backdated, but whatever program their slicer wrote to diffuse them across the proper servers off Coruscant forgot to account for differences in architecture. On external servers, the time stamps on their edits weren't modified. That, and there are a few discrepancies in her credfol, but that took my crawlers going at it to even notice. Like I said, very thorough, but not good enough.

"What I can't figure is why she was spending so long on Coruscant — and with the  _Jedi_ , at that. The cams have her going in and out of the Temple every day for weeks. Doesn't make any sense."

In any other situation, he might have laughed at the frustration on her face. Normally he wouldn't think this of a Zabrak, they were a very intense people, but she was nearly pouting, it was cute. But he knew what had happened, only one thing made sense, the black horror was already seeping through him, choking off the peculiarly affectionate thought before it could even really begin. "The Jedi didn't kill her. They brainwashed her. They wiped her mind completely, and replaced her identity with one that suits their purposes."

For a few seconds Kanyr stared at him, lips parted and eyes wide, the same horror that stole through him plain on her face. "That... They can  _do_  that?"

"Small-scale manipulation of memory is child's play for a Jedi. Something like  _this_ , however, is purely theoretical. But possible, perhaps." He handed the datapad back to her, a humorless smile twisting his lips. "Unless you have a better explanation."

"No, I..." She shook her head, something halfway between a sigh and dark laughter escaping her. "This is just... Is she really our Lady anymore if she doesn't remember anything?"

Ordinarily, Saul might worry about the same thing. But he wasn't worried. He'd learned quite a lot about how exactly this Force magic worked, both from reading texts Lesami had provided and from observation. Basic memory manipulation  _was_  child's play to Jedi, that was true, but it was more complicated than it sounded.

A permanent alteration was, essentially, one of their mind tricks anchored to the target, continually suppressing the memory in question. Eventually, the mind would incorporate the suggestion into itself, from which point it was irreversible, but this took time. Often years. And that period was longer for particularly strong-willed individuals. The suggestion itself was weakened each time the brain attempted to access the repressed memory; the larger the memory, the more skills and knowledge that were locked away, the more often the suggestion was assaulted, the shorter it lasted.

Lesami was an  _exceptionally_  strong-willed individual. That was how Force powers worked: the more focused and determined and confident the user, the more they were capable of. Just comparing with his inexpert eye the things Lesami had done with what he'd seen other Jedi could do, he wasn't sure there was anyone out there who could simply overwhelm her, force her mind to yield itself. Temporarily, perhaps, but  _permanently?_

The weaknesses in memory alteration were only more critical when it came to an attempt to completely overwrite one's identity. The associations hard-wired into a person's brain were defined by their experiences, and couldn't be changed — unless the replacement identity had led a virtually identical life, which would defeat the whole point, the disharmony between brain and mind would create instabilities in the constructed personality. And if the disguise were less than perfect, even the  _slightest_  flaws would eat away at the suggestion.

It would inevitably weaken, bit by bit. This Cianen Hayal would fall apart, slowly at first but ever faster, each hole in the narrative of her life only opening up another to scrutiny. Inevitably, the entire thing would collapse.

"She'll be back, Kanyr." Saul gave her the softest smile he could manage — which, he knew, was only slightly warmer than hard vacuum. "This is Her Excellency we're talking about. No chains can hold her for long.

"I want you to keep an eye on her. Cover your tracks, don't let anyone find out what you're doing, Sith or Republic. Report any developments to me. In person, in private. Understood?"

Kanyr nodded; by the slight quirking of her lips, she was a little offended he'd felt the need to tell her to keep it secret. "And if one of the Jedi pulls it out of my head?"

"I suppose it depends which one it is." The Sith Jedi came in two varieties. Most of them were, well, people — they certainly acted more like a person than normal Jedi did. Some of them though...

Alek wasn't the only one to lose his bloody mind.

"If you think you're outed, don't bother denying it. Just say you're acting under orders from me." That should prevent her from being killed out of hand, hopefully. And no matter how angry the Jedi in question was, Saul was confident he was safe — they needed  _someone_  to command their navy. And he was very good at his job. He was certain that was the only reason Alek hadn't had him eliminated, despite his questionable loyalties. "Get back before you're missed, Major.'

Kanyr unconsciously straightened at the formal address. "Yes, sir." With a quick nod, she was on her feet and headed for the door out.

"Be careful."

Her hand on the pad, she glanced over her shoulder, her face pulled into a cocky smirk. "Aren't I always?" And she was gone.

Before the door had even fully hissed shut Saul was already reaching for his console.

* * *

_Netha cringed, ducking her head and covering her eyes with her arm, gritting her teeth as black dust clawed at her skin. By the time the ship came to a halt only a few steps away, hovering a meter above the craggy, blasted wastes of Sleheyron, she felt scraped and raw, her arms and legs and stomach all too hot, throbbing with every beat of her heart._

_At least she'd had the foresight to steal a curtain to wrap over her head like a shawl — she didn't want to know what that would feel like on her lekku._

_A boarding hatch at the side of the ship smoothly descended, Netha framed with harsh, artificial light. And there was the human noblewoman from before, legs splayed against the movement of the little ship, her front foot right on the lip. Smiling at Netha, one hand held out to her. "Come on, then. We're in something of a rush."_

_Without a second of hesitation, Netha took the woman's hand and allowed herself to be pulled onto the ship._

_There was a faint beeping noise as the woman brought the inside of her wrist up near her face. Switching to Basic, she said, "She's up. Get us out of here." The ship was moving before she'd even finished the sentence, tilting and banking as it jumped forward, Netha clutched at her rescuer to keep herself from tumbling right back out the hatch. Seemingly unaffected, the woman reached for a nearby control panel, with a push of a button it lifted back shut, the quickly increasing roar of passing wind blotted out as quick as it'd started. "Max the null out, Nisa. I don't think our guest has ever been out of atmo before."_

_In a blink, the pull of acceleration, down and back, instantly vanished. Netha would have went right back over the other way, but the lady was as solid as steel, she didn't even lean a little bit. Suddenly realizing what she was doing, her hands jumped away from the woman's clothes. "Sorry, my lady," she mumbled, trying to ignore the heat on her face._

_The lady pouted back at her — which was a bit absurd, she was a grown woman. "I thought I asked you to call me Lesami." Then she smiled, hooking Netha around the elbow. "Come on, I'll show you around."_

_There wasn't a whole lot of ship to show her. From the outside, it was a sleek, pretty thing, all soft curves and gleaming whites and reds, but while obviously expensive it was a rather small ship. A central room that doubled as den and kitchen, a single shared sleeping area, a cargo hold that sat mostly empty — that was pretty much it. Not that Netha was much complaining, she couldn't remember the last time she'd actually had a bed to herself._

_Babbling off about something to do with whoever they'd borrowed the ship from — which Netha was a little surprised by, she'd been under the impression Lesami was independently wealthy — Lesami led her into the middle room, Netha quickly distracted by the man sprawled out across a sofa. His features were human enough she would have assumed he were one, if she hadn't learned by now that few species had as much variation in skin coloring as her people did. The deep red skin and glittering blue-black hair, this was a Zeltron._

_Netha tried not to look any more uncomfortable than she already was. She had...mixed experiences with Zeltrons._

_The man pushed himself up to sitting, his drab, heavy robe shifting about him. "This the girl, then?" He had a very obvious core accent, though with more of a lazy drawl than was entirely proper._

_Petering to a halt in the middle of the room, Lesami planted her hands on her hips, shooting the Zeltron an exasperated look. "Yes, this is_  the girl _. Don't stare at her like that, Sesai. It's rude."_

_And he had been staring at her, narrowed eyes unnaturally still, head cocked slightly to the side, his gaze intense enough Netha felt her skin crawl, but at the admonishment he twitched, shot Lesami a sheepish glance. "Sorry. Just, you're right, she is powerful."_

" _Am I ever wrong?"_

" _Not about that kind of thing, no."_

_Over the next couple hours, her three rescuers — Nisotsa eventually emerged from the cockpit, a human woman with light hair and a round face, eyes a peculiar green — talked among themselves, about admirals and Jedi Masters and Sith Lords and planets and sectors and treaties and alliances, all of it far over Netha's head. She just sat there, hugging her reconstituted stew to herself, later a sweet heated drink of a kind she didn't recognize, she hardly said a word, just stared at a single point in head of her, trying not to remember._

_Eventually, she didn't know how much later, Lesami suggested she might want to catch some sleep which, honestly, wasn't a terrible idea. Netha hadn't slept since...well, for a while. She hadn't been able to the night she'd met Lesami, she'd been too tense, too afraid, too, too..._ excited _, she hadn't been able to get the idea out of her head, she could do it, she_ could _, she'd be_ free...

_And after she'd sneaked and murdered her way through Omeesh's palace, of course, there'd simply been no time to sleep. How many days ago had that been? One? Two? She wasn't sure, the hours had started blurring together..._

_She remembered, the knife glowing red with the heat of her fury, burrowing into the sick slimy fuck's head, moving on its own, burning its way further, further, he tried to get away but he couldn't, she wouldn't let her, instead he could only scream, tail pounding against the floor, Netha's head had hurt, she'd felt too full, too_ hot _, but at once she'd felt_ wonderful _, she'd been_ laughing—

_She shivered, arms coming up to hug herself. Yes, she could use some sleep right about now._

_In the little shared sleeping area, pulling from the closets fresh linens for the bed and clothes for Netha to change into, Lesami froze in mid sentence. "Oh, I'm... This is going to sound stupid, but, I never actually did get your name."_

_It was sort of funny, that it'd taken this long to even ask. Netha had the feeling this Lesami was more a woman of action than of leisure — why talk when she could do? Though, the only 'name' she had to offer cut out any humor she might have found otherwise. "They call me Netha."_

_A blank, terrifyingly cold look stole over Lesami's face. (Did she speak Ryl? Netha had never met a human who could before.) "I see." For a moment she stared — not at Netha, more some point behind her shoulder — her eyes black and still and merciless. And then she was back, her face softening, taken with a wry sort of smile. "You might consider picking a new one."_

_Netha shrugged. She would have no idea what to choose. But she shrugged the uncomfortable thought off, latched onto another. "You don't like the Hutts."_

_Giving her an odd sort of look, Lesami said, "Should I?" Then she twitched, glancing away a little, as Netha shrugged off the tattered remains of her dress. (Which was strange, but okay.) "I have no issue with the race in general, of course, but the kajidics as a whole are despicable."_

_Cinching the pants closed took a little bit of figuring — she'd never worn anything of the like before, the fabric was very strange — but she got it after a few seconds. "Then why did you come here? I thought you were making a business deal or something with them, but..."_

_Lesami smirked. "Sometimes, you have to tolerate a few kreks at your feet until after you've dealt with the lylek in front of you."_

_She paused for a second, blinking at the human woman. That had been Ryl, smooth and easy, as natural as a native speaker. "Who's the lylek?" Personally, Netha couldn't imagine there were many people in the galaxy worse than the Hutts. More dangerous, perhaps — though the Hutts had been around a_ long  _time, and did have a history of slaughtering entire planets that annoyed them..._

" _That's not important right now. You've had a long couple days. We'll be out there if you need anything."_

_Netha glanced at the other empty beds in the room. "Aren't you all going to be sleeping in here too?"_

" _Oh, no," Lesami said, brushing it off. "We'll just meditate for a couple hours when we need to. By now we've all learned to avoid sleep when travelling alone. Habits of war, and all that. Don't worry about us, we'll be fine."_

" _...Okay." Netha was pretty sure normal people couldn't just meditate to forgo sleep entirely. That wasn't how anything worked. But then, she was also pretty sure Lesami, Nisotsa, and Sesai were anything but normal._

" _Sleep well, Freewoman." With a last smile, Lesami turned on her heel and left._

 _For long seconds, Netha could only sit there on the bed, staring at the closed door, blinking to herself. That had been in Ryl again, and she'd put a peculiar emphasis on "Freewoman"...but it hadn't been the normal word, either. Normally, it was said passive like, a person who has_ been freed  _by someone else. But Lesami had said it, like, a person who_ has freed  _herself. Similar meaning, but not quite the same thing._

_That odd emphasis, that warmth in her eyes..._

Yuthu-ra ba'n.

_Weakly at first, her lips twitching before settling into it, she smiled._

* * *

Yuthura typed in the familiar commands, clearing out net records and keystrokes over the last minutes, a few more to similarly scrub the Academy server, the relay over Korriban.

And she sat in front of her terminal, for long moments, staring into nothing.

 _She's alive_.

That's what the notice had said, the gist of it. Posted onto an anonymous message board, hidden deep within the Sith military network. It wasn't indexed, only the people who knew the exact address could access it, only those trusted few who'd been told about it. Those who were still loyal.

She was alive. There were many who'd  _believed_  she'd survived, yes, just on blind faith, but there'd been no  _evidence_ , no reason to...

Lesami was  _alive_.

Yuthura leaned her elbows against her desk, her hands covering her face, forced out a long, shaky sigh. It was overwhelming, heavy relief and vicious joy hot and thick filling her chest to bursting, but she couldn't let it out. Others would feel it, they'd be suspicious. So she held herself apart, pulled her feeling from self, where it couldn't expand through her out into the world. Without anything to feed on it quickly guttered out, and she was still and empty again.

But she smiled even so.

Once her mind was safely placid, Yuthura typed out a single, brief message. Then she closed out her terminal, and left her rooms behind her.

The Academy on Korriban had always struck her as an exercise in empty pride. More than anything, the continued existence of the institution was an overt attempt to embrace the legend, the history of the early Sith. The obvious falsehoods built into the Academy's narrative of its own history were quite glaring, once one knew enough.

The Academy was not nearly so old as it claimed to be. It was said there had been an institution of learning on this spot for going on ten thousand years, that it had been in continuous operation for most of the history of the old empire. But that was nonsense — the old Sith had mostly abandoned Korriban when the environment, strained by generations of industrial exploitation, had finally collapsed some five thousand years ago. A small population of cultists had remained behind, adherents of their old ancestor-worshipping religion enduring the harsh wasteland to maintain the temples dedicated to leaders millennia dead. The structure of the Academy had most likely been a temple itself, where pilgrims purified themselves before entering the Valley.

Honestly, Sith Academies hadn't even  _existed_  before the Great Migration a thousand years ago. Public institutions dedicated to collective study of the Force were a foreign concept to them.

Many she'd spoken to claimed the Academy on Korriban was the most prestigious of all such institutions in the Empire, but that was equally far from the truth. As far as the wider Empire was concerned, modern Korriban was a backwater, of interest only to archaeologists, zealots, and foreigners. Most former Jedi these days did study at Korriban, yes, but they didn't know anything about the bulk of the Empire outside of Republic-explored space — they often had no idea there were other options, had no idea where to look for them. Few had even heard rumors about the Sith holdings throughout the galactic west until after joining.

The point was, the Academy on Dromund Kaas was generally considered far superior. Only Korriban alumni held such a high opinion of the one here.

Even the appearance of the Academy hinted at its minor importance. The hall she walked down now was ancient, yes, grainy red stone carved who knew how many millennia ago, but it did look just that:  _old_. The walls and floors were half-eroded in places, fine dust collecting here and there, every glimpse of advanced technology — computers, the long strips of lighting folded into the upper corners, even the  _doors_  — had been added later, modernity fitted into the ancient stone with all the subtlety of a plasma grenade to the face. It grated on her a little, how obviously it all clashed.

Though it was far from the only thing here at the Academy she found irritating.

A quick glance at her chrono confirmed she had about a half hour before the afternoon assembly. Wandering through the maze of dilapidated corridors shortly brought her to the student dorms, a swipe of her chit over the lock and the door swished open. The students' rooms were ascetic little things, little more than dark stone and a simple bed and desk, monochromatic and grim. Uthar and her own apartments were lavish by comparison. Not surprising, given that the Korriban Academy had a habit of attracting the less pleasant sort of Sith for its instructors.

Sitting cross-legged on the bed was a dark-skinned human woman, shortly out of adolescence but her face lined with exhaustion. Her eyes, dark and bloodshot, were narrowed with concentration, an open hand hovering over a sorcery focusing crystal, blue-purple facets formed into a rough pyramid lined with silver. As Yuthura watched, sparks crackled between her fingers, electricity playing over the crystal, and the woman jumped, wincing with pain and shaking out her hand.

"You're still thinking, Thalia."

Thalia jumped again, eyes wildly flicking up to find Yuthura at the door. Starting to scramble to her feet, she gasped, "Master, I'm sorry, I didn't—"

Part of Yuthura still squirmed whenever anyone called her that. "Don't get up. You're still working on conjuring lightning, I see."

Grimacing, she nodded. "I don't know what's wrong. I just can't get it."

"You're thinking too much." At Thalia's baffled, doubtful look Yuthura couldn't help a slight smile. "From what I can tell from the glimpse I got, you are accomplishing exactly what you are attempting to accomplish. The issue is that you're attempting the wrong thing. That was electricity you cast, normal electricity pulled from the environment. Which is itself an accomplishment, few ever develop significant talent manipulating energy directly like that." She nearly mentioned Revan's particular talent with tutaminis, but caught herself at the last instant — speaking positively of Lesami where one could be overheard was a little risky these days. "Power is not your problem.  _Intent_  is your problem.

"Proper Sith lightning is not true electricity, Thalia. It is the will to cause suffering made manifest. It is not something you think about. It is something you  _feel_."

Thalia met her eyes with a mulish sort of glare for a couple seconds, the air around her simmering with her discontent. Then, catching herself, her face smoothed over, any hint of her feelings disappearing from the Force. Thalia might be having some trouble with even the most basic of sorcery, but at least she had decent control over herself.

There were two kinds of Sith. Yuthura would rather see the Empire filled with mediocre Sith than the wrong kind.

"I mean no offense, but, how am I supposed to  _do_  that?"

Yuthura smiled. "Are you telling me you have never hated anyone? That there is no one in all the galaxy you would enjoy to see suffer?"

Shifting a bit on her bed, Thalia shrugged. "I was under the impression nurturing that sort of hatred ultimately led to madness."

It took some effort to keep the victorious grin off her face. Apparently, slipping Revan's writings into the required reading list — carefully paraphrased, and attributed to other, innocuous figures — was already paying off.

There were two kinds of Sith. One was what, she'd learned, the Jedi thought of when they pictured users of the Dark Side, what they thought all Sith were like. As Lesami put it, these were Sith whose passion was focused within. On their own pride, their own desires. The problem with this was, well, the Jedi weren't entirely wrong about channelling the Dark Side. As the saying goes, power corrupts — focusing that kind of power through petty emotions to selfish ends, bit by bit each time, gradually turns a person's mind toward pettiness and selfishness. Do it too much, and a Sith can become so thoroughly corrupted that they see nothing beyond themselves, their own aggrandizement and their own pleasures, a self-sustaining cycle that only drives the user further and further into unrecoverable, self-destructive madness.

But that wasn't what most Sith were actually like — that particular brand of Force-user had always been a minority in the old Empire, limited to a particular segment of the aristocracy. If  _all_  Dark Side users were like that, the Sith wouldn't have lasted very long as a civilization. It just doesn't work on a large scale.

It  _was_  possible to use personal anger and hatred to channel the Dark Side without feeding into the cycle, to release the feeling in the process instead of branding it into one's soul, but it could become a trap, one that former Jedi often fell into. Jedi were taught from a very early age to release their more burdensome feelings into the Force, to let them dissipate into depersonalizing everything. But sometimes, in the moment, they would be too overwhelmed with frustration, hatred righteous or otherwise, and without thinking they would use the power their passion gave them, driving themselves deeper into the Force even as they let it sweep the emotion that had gotten them there away.

But then they remembered that power it'd given them, and took from it exactly the wrong lesson. It was the  _Force_  that had given them that power, not their passion — their passion had given them the will to reach further than they usually could, but the power still wasn't truly theirs. But they'd learned the wrong lesson, they nurtured their fury and their hate, carrying it with them always, a constant source of passion they could exploit whenever necessary. One that drove them, inevitably, into madness.

It wasn't  _using_  negative emotions that was the problem —  _holding onto them_  was what led to corruption. Letting oneself be consumed by their own darkness, bit by bit, until nothing else was left. It was  _possible_  to use private passion to drive oneself into the Dark Side but then let the storm wash it away, leaving oneself clean. But this was playing with fire. Lesami had explicitly recommended against it, said it took superior discipline and self-control to not get carried away, more than most people were capable of.

Instead, she'd recommended an old Sith way of thinking, the method that was taught primarily to their soldiers, their priests, much of the less important noble families. The people who society overall could not afford to have going mad with poisonous self-interest. A person's passion should not be  _internal_ , but  _external_. Not sourced from and directed toward their internal experience, their position in life, but the reality of the world around them, its structure and its functioning.

True enlightenment, she'd written, true power, came not from understanding and uplifting oneself. For the individual, no matter how powerful they might be, was but one among thousands of trillions, alive for the briefest of moments. On a galactic scale, what might seem important to the individual became insignificant, or vice versa.

What it came down to was that Thalia was thinking about the wrong kind of hatred. "I understand you were once part of the AgriCorp, back in the Republic." Though why the hell the Order had passed up on making Thalia a proper Jedi Yuthura couldn't possibly imagine — she  _was_  powerful, just standing within a few feet of her that was undeniable. "Why did you leave?"

Thalia looked less than comfortable with the question, turning away to moodily glare at the wall. But, after a few seconds of thick silence, she answered. "I was with a team on Anobis, an agriworld near Ord Mantell."

Yuthura nodded. She wasn't familiar with the planet — there were far too many in the galaxy to know them all — but just to prompt Thalia on.

"A couple centuries ago, Seni got a huge contract, they manage half the agriculture on the planet for the Republic. Oh, Seni is a corporate conglomerate owned by a few Tionese families, by the way, not important. Anyway, they..." Thalia trailed off, stared at the wall for another second. Her eyes had gone darker, deeper, subtle horror pulling at her face. "Most large-scale agriculture is done mechanically, of course, but some things are too sensitive, they have to be done by hand. There's this fruit they grow on Anobis it— Never mind, the details aren't...

"There's this native species, not recognized sentients. Shasha, they're called. There were some millions of them already there when the planet was discovered. They're, about, waist-high," Thalia said, holding a hand over the floor as though measuring, "maybe a little taller. They're...well, definitely mammals, but I wouldn't describe them as any particular archetype. Um, long and thin, big fluffy ears, clawed hands, but still very dextrous.

"Seni, they... They keep them. By the hundreds of thousands, millions. They pick the fruit, clean it, package it. When they're not working, they're kept in these big compounds, packed in there, hardly given enough to survive. And Seni, they, they breed them, they drug them. They kill the ones that are too old or sick or...uncooperative.

"At first I found the whole thing, just, unsettling, but then..." Thalia's face twisted, a grimace of long-simmering rage boiling to the surface. "They're  _sentient_. Seni insists they aren't, the official Republic position agrees. But they  _are_. I wasn't so good with the mind stuff back then, but, they have language, they have personalities. The ones outside of the compounds, living off in the wilds, they have villages, they have  _culture_. And Seni keeps them as slaves,  _millions_  of them, in conditions no better than if they were animals. They claim they  _are_ animals!

"And I tried to—" Her voice cutting off so hard her throat clicked, Thalia leaned forward a bit, holding her face in her hands. Fury and hatred and despair pulsed against Yuthura, the intensity of it all coming as a bit of a surprise — Yuthura had had absolutely no idea Thalia had been carrying something like this. (Though not unusual, most former Jedi among the Sith had been similarly disillusioned.) "The Master with us that year, I tried to get him to... He said it wasn't our place, that we didn't have the authority to do anything about it. It was outside of our mandate. Seni had the planetary government behind them, the sector government, all the way up to the fucking Senate. I..."

"It sickened you." Thalia's hands dropped, slowly, and she stared up at Yuthura, flushed and tense, the air in the little room filled, electric,  _powerful_. "You felt so helpless, so hopeless, so full of rage you couldn't hold it all. It made you sick."

"Yes," she said, nodding. "I was sick, a few times. I mean, literally."

Her voice falling into a low, forceful whisper, Yuthura hissed, " _There_  is your answer, Thalia. Remember what is done to the Shasha,  _that_  is your passion. Let it flow into the Force, let  _it_ carry  _you_  for once. Push your rage outward, and make all those responsible  _hurt_  for what they've done."

This time, when the focusing crystal was wreathed with crackling energy, it glowed a bloody red, and Thalia's hand came away unscathed.

And Yuthura smiled. Looked like they would soon have another of the proper kind of Sith.

In the end, Yuthura managed to get Thalia to assembly in time — she had a habit of getting absorbed in her studies and showing up late, or just missing the meeting entirely, which was not good for her future health. Uthar was his usual melodramatic, sadistic self. The whole assembly, Uthar smugly lecturing at and occasionally torturing their students, Yuthura just stood behind his shoulder, tried to keep her disgust off her face.

The Academy on Korriban had always been...questionable, had a tendency to attract the wrong kind of Sith. Something about the air here, she thought, the poison and death of millennia past seeping into the soul. It was why Yuthura had come here in the first place, in fact, to do her best to nurture the proper kind of Sith, shield them from the excesses of people like Uthar.

She'd had some success before, but things had become more difficult since Malak had taken over. Malak was the wrong kind of Sith, and he surrounded himself with more of the same. Having one of their own at the top had emboldened his ilk across the Empire, the proper kind of Sith slowly shuffled into the background, one by one. (Or simply outright murdered.) In the most visible example, last month Nisotsa had been ousted from her position as Minister of State, which had been hers since the Empire's inception. Malak hadn't even given a reason for dismissing her, which had sparked political unrest on a handful of Imperial worlds that only got worse as it went on — Lady Thul, as she was usually called, had managed to make herself  _very_  popular over the years, enough there were even whisperings of a movement to remove Malak and put her at the top.

The wrong kind of Sith did seem to overlook the common people entirely. That was a fatal mistake. There might be thousands of Force-trained Sith, but the Empire was made up of  _trillions_  of beings. Big guns and fancy magic tricks only kept them in line for so long.

The proper kind of Sith weren't taking all of this lying down, of course, but they had to be careful. They were the majority, but they didn't currently hold any significant positions in leadership, and despite the problems of recent years Malak still commanded too much loyalty won by his previous accomplishments. It didn't help that far too many of the wrong kind of Sith happened to be the more powerful ones. They would win eventually, but they had to organize, they had to plan, it would take time.

Unless Revan showed up and sparked a sudden, explosive civil war. Which, unless something unforeseen intervened, was exactly what was going to happen.

Eventually, the assembly came to an end — and without anyone dying this time, look at that. Yuthura went about the rest of her evening routine. Slipping subversive advice to the more promising students, further ingratiating herself with the soldiers and administrative staff, the usual. But she was cut short when the com at her waist pinged. She had a call waiting for her back in her rooms.

The location and identity of her caller was blocked but, when she took the call at her desk, she wasn't at all surprised to see the face of Sesai Rhysa snap into existence before her. "Why if it isn't little Yuthura!" he said with a grin, the washed-out colors of the hologram failing to communicate the twinkle in his eyes she knew would be there. "I haven't heard from you in  _ages_. And I thought we were friends, I'm hurt."

Yuthura shot him a half-hearted glare. "I know what you consider 'friendship', and I'm not interested."

He sucked in a harsh gasp, face twisting with false agony. "Ooh, ouch, Yuthura,  _ouch_. That  _hurts_ , right here. You can't see it, but my hand is over my heart right now."

"Could you cut the dramatics for five seconds, Sesai? I did call you for a reason."

"Right, of course." The despair vanished, but that didn't mean he was taking it seriously yet — Yuthura knew that crooked smile, it was far too familiar by this point. "Okay, what is a big-shot Academy instructor doing calling little ole me, then?"

Yuthura's eyes rolled before she could stop them. Sesai was one of the Empire's best counter-intelligence agents, he was much more of a "big-shot" than she was. "Lesami's alive."

Finally all traces of humor vanished, leaving Sesai's face uncharacteristically solemn. "You're certain. How do you know?"

"I got it from Admiral Karath. I haven't seen his intelligence, but I'm sure it's good." The post she'd seen had been anonymous, of course, but Yuthura had already known he was looking for her. And his style  _was_  rather distinctive.

"Saul isn't one to jump at shadows, that's true." He paused for a moment, eyes drifted to the side of the holocam, tongue working silently at his teeth. After a few seconds of thought, they snapped back. Lips tilting in a faint smile, he said, "I suppose you called to suggest I go track her down."

"She's been out of touch for some time. We don't know what she knows. We have to open a line of communication, tell her we weren't, we weren't involved, that we'll be behind her when she comes back."

Sesai shook his head. "She doesn't blame us. She'd been concerned about the turn Alek had taken for a while at that point. She actually told me, a couple weeks beforehand, that she suspected he might turn on her soon. Alek simply took an opportunity before she could move to neutralise him."

She blinked. "Oh." Yuthura had had no idea. But then, she wasn't important enough to be in frequent contact with leadership — Lesami had dropped by the Academy every once in a while, but Yuthura certainly hadn't been in the loop. "Well, to start planning at least."

"What makes you so sure she'll want to take the throne again?"

"I'm not." Personally, she wasn't convinced Lesami had truly wanted it in the first place. "But I  _am_  sure she won't want Malak on it."

Sesai nodded. "True. Okay, I'll get on it. I have some leave saved up, I should be able to disappear for weeks before anyone notices I'm not where I said I'd be. Maybe I'll even get there quick enough to help her with the assassins. Alek is on Saul's ship, you know, he'll find out eventually."

"I know." Karath had been taught to protect his mind from intrusion, but the techniques available to the Force-blind were imperfect. Malak would pick up on it before too long. "It's not the end of the world if you don't, I'm sure she could fight off anyone he would send."

"Oh, well, yeah. I just  _want_  to be there for the assassins." Sesai's soft smile spread into a grin, toothy and eager. "I know you've never actually fought with her before, so you wouldn't know. But she's a thing of beauty when she gets into it. I do miss her."

Sesai was being less than subtle with the nostalgic lust on his voice — but then, he  _was_  a Zeltron, that wasn't exactly a surprise. "Do try to contain yourself. She doesn't have a lot of patience for idiocy, and we kind of need you to not get yourself thrown through a bulkhead until after you've opened a channel."

"I think I'm offended again. I've known Lesami a lot longer than you, Yuthura, since we were good little Jedi younglings together."

She tried not to laugh at the thought of Lesami and Sesai ever having been  _good little Jedi younglings_.

"I know, I know. Point is, I learned how to not get burned a  _long_  time ago." Sesai glanced at something off to the left. "Unless you had anything else, I should start getting things rolling."

"All right. Be careful out there, Sesai."

He smiled, bright and warm. "Honestly, who do you think you're talking to?" The call cut off, the holo blinking out of existence.

Yuthura leaned back in her chair with a huff. Yeah, she knew  _exactly_  who she'd been talking to. Sesai could be subtle when he really needed to be — he wouldn't be nearly so capable an operative if he couldn't — but when he  _didn't_  try to put a lid on his...eccentricities... Things did have a tendency to quickly go completely insane whenever he was around. Like most of the original Revanchists, really.

They took after their leader like that, she thought, smirking to herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sith Jedi —  _Excluding a few eccentrics who read up about this stuff, the average person doesn't really get this Light/Dark Jedi/Sith stuff. To them, the Republic and the Empire are simply competing states, each of which have their own Jedi. Calling someone "Sith" just means they're from/with the Empire; calling someone a "Jedi" just means they have superpowers. And yes, the Order gets very annoyed whenever someone calls the Sith "Jedi"._
> 
> [krek...lylek] —  _Creatures native to Ryloth, the Twi'lek homeworld. A krek is a sort of beetle-like thing, while a lylek is a large, deadly predator._
> 
> [galactic west] —  _In-universe language sometimes uses the anachronism of planetary maps to refer to orientation in the galaxy, just as a casual convention. The "galactic west" Yuthura refers to corresponds mostly to the large swath of unexplored space on the opposite side of the core. There are advanced cultures here, in extensive trade with each other but not unified into a single state. They're not primitive, they just don't recognize Coruscant as the center of civilization, and have only minimal contact with the east._
> 
> _I put Dromund Kaas in this region (a little north of the Chiss Ascendency), while in canon it's located in traditional Sith space in the outer rim, halfway between the Hydian and Perlemian. This is, honestly, ludicrous. The entire area has been charted (if not quite thoroughly) by the Republic for centuries, and sits near some important centers of galactic commerce. We're supposed to believe the Sith Empire managed to, just, hide there, slowly building up the forces necessary to fight the Republic to a stalemate over the course of one and a half thousand years, and **nobody ever noticed**? Do you have any idea the kind of resources necessary to support militaries on this kind of scale? Pull the other one, Bioware._
> 
> _Instead, I moved the Kaasite Sith out to the northern Unknown Regions, where they've been gradually building up an empire for a thousand years at this point. Makes their invasion of the Republic in SWTOR a few hundred years down the line far more believable._
> 
> Anobis —  _Canonically, Anobis wouldn't actually be settled for roughly another thousand years. However, I'm not sure that's practical. It's just off a significant trade route, and should be within a couple hops of Ord Mantell. All the "Ord" worlds were colonised as military outposts during the Pius Dea Republic (ORD = Ordinance/Regional Depo). By the time of KotOR, Ord Mantell would have been settled for roughly nine thousand years. The suggestion that the immediate area wouldn't have been charted after all that time is a bit ridiculous. Especially since the whole point of ORD worlds was to protect human colonies in the area._
> 
> _Besides, I needed an agriworld with a convenient location, and Anobis was the first one I found._
> 
> * * *
> 
> _I had hoped to have this chapter out earlier. I'd also thought it would be much shorter, but then my brain decided those flashback scenes were necessary, and Yuthura's introspection went overboard. Whoops._
> 
> _This has been mentioned before, but just in case anyone was wondering: the Dark Side works different than in canon. Largely because the canon stuff makes the Sith far too boring._
> 
> _Right, two more Taris chapters after this, and we'll be moving on to Dantooine. Finally._
> 
> _Until next time,_  
>  ~Wings


	9. Taris — IV

Kandosa had been waiting for less than five minutes when his contact appeared. He hadn't seen her at first, small enough she'd nearly been hidden in the shadow of a passing Jilruan.

He might have nearly missed her, but she wouldn't have gone unnoticed for very long. Kandosa had learned a long time ago how much could be read out of how a person walked, how they held themselves. He'd gotten into the habit of observing people, he'd long since started doing it automatically. This human woman — had to be his contact, her face fit the holo he'd been sent perfectly — her walk didn't match the rest of her.

He meant, she looked perfectly normal. Scuffed boots, simple, cheap synthetic clothing, a blaster at her hip accompanied with far more power cells than most would think reasonable just for a walk down the concourse. Perhaps a bit cleaner than one would expect, but everyone had their quirks. She looked ordinary, but she walked like someone important. The unconscious grace of those born into wealth or power, but the sharp confidence of a warrior. Put the two together and he would say, no matter that she looked like nothing but a spacer down on her luck, she moved like a general.

Well. Perhaps this  _was_  going to be interesting.

It took but a second for the woman to spot him. She sauntered through the cantina over to his table, carving through the shifting crowd with casual ease, stood across from him. "Kandosa of Ordo, so you're alive."

Kandosa blinked at the fluent Mandoa, only mildly surprised. First contact had been in Mandoa, of course, but it'd been written — there were translators on the net that could handle that with little issue. Perhaps she'd picked it up somewhere, his people were scattered all over the galaxy these days. "Was there a clan name with that, Cina?"

If Cina was surprised by his guess that she was the one making an offer, and not an employee of the same, she didn't react. "No, I haven't the honor, I'm afraid."

"Well, sit down, then," he said, pointing with his chin. She did, smooth and easy, not breaking eye contact on the way down. "So, you have a job for me. What's the target?"

"It's not that kind of job. I don't think it particularly likely, but it's possible there won't be any fighting at all."

That... No, she hadn't just learned Mandoa recently — that was fluent,  _native_  speech. Her accent was slightly off, Vorpayya, unless he was mistaken. If she was from Vorpaya, but wasn't a child of a proper clan, she had probably been angling for an adoption before everything had gone to shit. The child of immigrants or exiles, something like that. Though, if she  _hadn't_ been raised in a proper clan, and on a largely agricultural planet of all places, she likely wouldn't have been raised Mandoade from childhood, which just made the way she held herself even more strange. He hid his suspicion with a smile — it would be rather rude to draw attention to her circumstances, after all. "But you don't think that likely, so you want backup."

With a wry little smile, the little woman shrugged. "I have a few comrades, and we  _will_  be in the fight, but there aren't enough of us. I was hoping we could pick up some extra firep—" Cina cut off, glancing up as the server approached their table. The Rodian woman dropped the platter of fried genishak onto the middle of the table, quickly followed by a couple tall glasses of ale. Once she was gone, Cina turned back to Kandosa, one questioning eyebrow raised.

He nodded. "Fill your boots." Going to such lengths to be hospitable wasn't something he would normally do for a prospective client, but he'd admit the initial message had intrigued him. Everybody knew he was Mandoade, of course, but  _nobody_  attempted to treat with him in his own tongue, and certainly didn't think to observe the proper niceties.

It did make rather more sense now, with this Cina being some kind of Mandoade refugee, but that didn't make him any less curious.

With the appropriate half-hearted grunt of thanks, Cina took a strip of the genishak and a sizeable gulp of ale. He waited until the glass came thudding back to the table before speaking. "All right. You just need a little extra firepower. A handful of my boys and myself might be willing to provide that. What is it you have going down, exactly?"

Cina shook her head. "You might not like it."

"Oh, we'll just have to see, won't we?"

She glanced around the room for a second — had to be reflex, nobody on Taris spoke Mandoa — then leaned forward a little over the table. "I'm sure you know of the swoop race coming up."

Shrugging to himself, he said, "I might have heard of it. Another pissing contest between the local trash. They're always scrabbling over which should get to be on top of the heap, I don't always pay attention."

A smirk pulled at her lips, teeth glinting in the colorful light of the cantina. "Something like that, yes. You might have heard the prize offered by the Vulkars is a person, a human woman. I've been contracted by a third party to rescue her. We decided our best shot at a successful extraction is at the race, when she's out in the open. Now, I will have my pilot in the race, and she's good, so she should do well. She will place high, but I'm not sure if she'll win. If she doesn't, we'll have to take her by force."

Kandosa nodded, slowly, something half-remembered niggling at the back of his head. "I see why you want backup — that could get real ugly real fast. What's your team look like?"

"There's me, of course. My second, who's more than decent with a blaster. My best fighter is a Wookiee — I don't know if you're familiar with the species, they're very big and very tough. Not a bad head on that one either, though he can get a little carried away."

He felt his lips twitch. "I know the type."

Returning his smile, amusement in her eyes, Cina shrugged. "The pilot can also fight; she's not quite as good a shot as the rest of us but she's clever as hell, very good in a pinch. My slicer will be hidden up a few levels, she'll be our eyes. I have her practicing with a sniper rifle at the moment, but I wouldn't depend on that, violence isn't her style. That's all of us. When we move to secure the target, the Vulkars and the others will attack, and the Beks are certain to retaliate. But we can't count on that — they'll be hitting the Vulkars, not covering us."

That almost had him grinning — this tiny little thing was casually talking about sparking off a gang war that could easily drag on for months or even years just so she could get at her mark. It was sort of adorable, honestly. "You said you were hired by a third party. If I do agree to help you out, I'll be wanting a cut. Say, thirty-five."

Cina frowned at him for a moment. Then she leaned a little further forward, her voice actually dropping to a mutter this time, barely audible over the music filling the cantina. "There's a reason I came to you, Kandosa of Ordo. You kill for Davik, yes, and most everyone I talked to is right terrified of you. But you have another reputation. People say you're honorable, fair, and reasonable. I could have found some  _mir'osiksii_  mercs, they might get the job done, but I'd rather fight with someone I can depend on to have their head straight.

"My point is, Kandosa, I want you to name your price. I'll pay you in Republic credits, whatever you feel is fair. I don't want to swindle you, and I trust you not to swindle me."

It took a short moment, staring flatly back into Cina's eyes, for it to sink in that she was being completely serious.

Somehow, Kandosa managed to hold in his shocked, delighted laughter.

* * *

Mission had never felt so completely awesome in her entire life.

The lower city gangs threw a big swoop race every year or so, though no two were on exactly the same course. Go deep enough under the surface and everything was pretty much abandoned, a forest of monolithic towers and dilapidated concourses and rusting walkbridges and debris. In the weeks before every race, a neutral team would go down to scout out a new course, zigzagging between the obstacles, up and down levels, sometimes even carving tunnels through towers. Cameras were set up here and there throughout the course, giving the spectators and gamblers something to watch — only a very small bit of the course could be seen from the finish line, after all.

It had taken Mission less than half an hour to slice into the system. The day before the race, Zee and Cina had tracked down a spot in an abandoned tower overlooking the staging area, where she was set up now. An array of displays were hooked up to a terminal she'd cannibalized from one of their nests — most waited idle for the race to start, one showed the gathering crowd below her from two angles, the last a few columns of scanning code and one waiting command line.

A constant hissing and chattering in one ear was her line into planetary dispatch, which had been much harder to slice into, though it had actually taken far less time to set it up for today. (She'd cracked the official com channels ages ago, after all.) Her other ear was linked to everyone else's coms, on a channel with a mutating encryption she was actually rather proud of. Not that anyone else on the team was really good enough with cryptography to appreciate it — Zee was ace with hardware, but he didn't have the head for software.

It was just...so...damn... _cool_. She felt like a spy or something in some terribly cheesy holodrama, it was great. Especially when she got to say things like, "Skies still clear, Red. Swarm looks clean." It didn't  _look_  like anyone was trying to sabotage the other racers, anyway. The cameras also scanned for disruptive signals, but she didn't see anything.

A gruff voice responded with, "Copy, Scope. Note any changes."

Mission winced, glanced to her left. One of the window panels had been carefully removed, a long, nasty-looking sniper rifle propped against the frame and waiting. The code names had been her idea — she didn't think it was likely anyone would crack her encryption, it just sounded fun — so of course they had to go pick one for her she kind of hated. It turned out she was a far better shot with that thing than a normal blaster, but she still wasn't comfortable with the idea.

Though, she wasn't entirely sure why Asyr was called Red — it wasn't like her fur was red or anything...

"Scope, Twin. Is Heavy in position?"

Before Mission could even glance at her screens to confirm quick, Canderous was answering Carth already. "This isn't my first op,  _Chakaar_. Just try not to hit me when it lights up."

Of course, to make things even  _more_  awesome, they were working with a legit Mandalorian mercenary. Mandalorians were scary, she wouldn't deny that — she couldn't remember the invasion very well, it'd been too long ago, but the people who did remember didn't have nice things to say. And, well, they were a bit big and hard and intimidating. (At least Canderous was, anyway.) But they were just so... _badass_ , yeah? As though this didn't feel enough like some ridiculous holodrama already, they just had to pick up a grizzled jaded soldier type. Just kept getting better and better.

" _Kandosa, ken copaani sa-talganr. Ache naar ven parji, juan ni sa tagar lise aat-kiramur. Jat?"_  That was completely meaningless to Mission, but she recognized the voice easily enough, even with how her encryption distorted the sound a little. Apparently, Cina spoke Mandalorian. Which wasn't as much of a surprise as it should have been, Mission wasn't convinced there were languages Cina didn't speak.

" _Orijate, ni burcha. Ven pakodshia sa ham'halai._ "

" _Jehaachii._ "

" _Gar jorhai sa ni jehaatii?_ "

" _Iji anaat ru. Chon gar buche—_ "

His exasperation clear even over the com, Carth said, "Would you two stop that? Seriously, listening to Pads and Red go on in Bothan was bad enough, I don't need Mando gibberish too."

"Very subtle,  _aruetii_. I'm sure nobody listening in will find a Bothan on Taris at all suspicious."

Mission couldn't resist. "Nobody's listening in, Heavy. It'd take days to slice this channel, we won't be using it that long."

"I don't doubt it,  _ad'ika_. That doesn't mean Twin isn't an idiot."

She shrugged — she wasn't about to disagree there. It'd been a week now, and Carth still hadn't done or said anything to change her immediate first impression of him. She really did hate it when people she was  _way_  smarter than treated her like a helpless little kid who needed to be hidden away and taken care of. Shit, she'd been living on the streets practically alone since she was  _seven_ , nobody had been taking care of her for a very long time, she knew how to get by around here far better than Carth did. If anything,  _she_  was the one who needed to take care of  _him_.

Or, she would say so if Cina weren't already handling him. She clearly hadn't spent all her time on a nice shiny core world, she knew how to take care of herself. Which was a little weird. Hadn't she said she'd spent all her time on Alderaan and...some planet Mission had forgotten the name of that was mostly farms? How exactly did she seem so comfortable on a city planet anyway?

Eh. Must be that weird brain stuff Mission couldn't quite wrap her head around. Not important.

The racers were all moving into position now, the array of overpowered repulsors setting her teeth to vibrating even all the way up here. There was a sudden increase of activity from the system, but a quick skim of the code determined it as just a last diagnostic, nothing really important. The count had already started, a holoprojector above the finish counting down from a minute. Cina and Asyr were hissing in Bothan over the line, no idea what that was, probably not anything important. (She could sample it and copy it into a translator, but she decided not to — there was  _something_  going on between them, she had the feeling whatever it was would be private.) The count hit zero and, in a blink, the swoops all zipped into motion, shooting out of the staging area quicker than the eye could follow.

But computers were faster. She saw all of it.

The races the lower city gangs on Taris threw together were rather different than professional ones. For one thing, there were usually rather more participants relative to the width of the course — the official leaderboard had seventy-three spots, which was less than in a professional race, but the course narrowed to only a few meters wide in a couple places, and never spread to more than twenty or so. And there were far more obstacles in the way. Underground races, on the average, were  _far_  more deadly than professional ones, and most of those accidents were in the opening moments, as the racers tried to force themselves somewhere in the pack without running into anything. Which also turned the opening stretch into a minefield for the next two laps, it never went well.

There were reasons she only  _watched_  races, and never actually tried to convince the Beks to let her enter. She wasn't an idiot.

This race was no different. Only a handful of seconds had passed when sparks were already flying across one of her displays, staccato bursts of fire as racers were pushed off the narrow course against walls or bits of debris sticking up into the course. Mission kept a careful eye on one monitor, the one she'd set to track Asyr as closely as possible. (There were a few spots the cameras didn't reach, but she'd be able to eye her most of the course.) The sleek red-silver swoop had ended up in the middle of the pack somehow, which was a rather unsafe place to be — they were squished into tight formation, there wasn't a lot of room to maneuver. A crash at the left of the pack had the whole group shuffling right as they went, a few places bumping into each other, one just in front of Asyr swung around, the back was going to come right down on the tip of—

Asyr drifted right, rolling a bit left as she went. Just as she was about to hit the swoop next to her, she suddenly popped a few meters higher into the air and shot forward, clear over the one in front of her that had nearly pitched her into the ground. Mission grinned to herself — Asyr had used the repulsors to jump off another swoop, giving her both more height  _and_ more speed, since the other one was moving too. It was enough to have her sailing over the next few ranks, zipping by in the narrow space between the pack and the bottom of a concourse overhead, sinking back to optimum height hard enough she scraped the ground for a second, a trail of sparks dancing in her wake, but she recovered smooth enough, now a couple lengths ahead of the main pack, already closing in on the leaders.

The swoop she'd used for a boost was less lucky, shoved into the ground, sent spinning and flipping. At least until another rammed into him, disappearing in a fireball shot with crackling electricity, growing as another smashed into it, then another. But that's how these things went sometimes. Asyr wasn't the only one to screw over another racer, they were down to fifty-four already.

But it looked like Asyr wasn't bad at this. Good choice — if she understood right, their other option had been Carth, and Mission really doubted he'd be ruthless enough to pull that kind of stunt. It was still early, but if she kept flying like that Asyr had a decent shot.

Mission straightened in her chair, hand coming up to one earbud. "Guys, I got Sith chatter about the race."

"Copy, Scope. Are they moving in?"

She took a long moment to listen, eyes tracking over the code scrolling by, only idly noting Asyr tick up a couple more spots. Finally, her chest loosened, tension she hadn't even consciously noticed melting away. "Negative, Pads. Sounds like they're watching, have bets riding on it. Skies still clear."

"How's Red doing? I can't even pick her out on this damn feed."

"Twin, Red. Just sit tight a few minutes." There was only the slightest whistle of wind under Asyr's rumbling voice, most of the air rushing by cut out by her helmet.

Mission glanced at the screen, Asyr and a few racers around her banking into a narrow tunnel. Asyr cut sharp into the turn, slipping in front of the one ahead of her, but coming into the tunnel at way too hard of an angle. She rolled, repulsors coming against the side wall of the tunnel just in time, riding sideways for a short bit before the tunnel swung back the other way, she slipped across the ceiling, passing another racer over his head, to the opposite wall before letting herself drift back right side up, locking onto the floor again. Damn. Yeah, Asyr was pretty good.

"I can out-fly a few untrained civs in a straight race. Trust me." And she didn't even sound nervous. Shooting around at a hundred meters a second, a single, tiny mistake all it would take to have her smash herself to death, and she didn't seem any more strained than she did sitting in their apartment eating breakfast, like this were no big deal. Rather less strained than she sounded just  _going up stairs_ , with her injuries from her crash down planetside still bothering her.

Mission thought that was kind of funny. She'd never met one before, but apparently the stereotypes about Bothans were completely accurate.

By the time Asyr was coming around the first few curves of the second lap, Mission thought she mostly had the picture of it by now. She'd watched enough races to get a feel for how people flew pretty quickly. "Okay, Red, pass two more and you'll be in the top five." They needed to be in at least the top five to get into the winners' circle, close enough for Cina and Asyr to make a grab for Bastila. "You should be able to hold that no problem, the way you're flying. If you want to try to go for lead, watch the guy in the black and gold swoop. He's tricky. You could tail him and skip just before the finish, but be careful."

"Copy, Scope." Asyr smoothly ducked under a racer as he popped over a dip in the course, cutting into the next curve and putting her in sixth. "I'm covered, if you want to get set up."

Glancing toward the rifle waiting next to the window, Mission couldn't quite keep a pout from her face.

* * *

The bars of her tiny prison swung away, and arms were reaching for her, thick and hard and muscular. Bastila tried to twist away, but it was more reflex than anything. There was nowhere to run.

Hands took her above both elbows, hard and strong as steel, squeezing tight enough to bruise, dragged her forward. Her head spun, the dirty, asymmetrical arena carved out of the metal and plastic and ceramic of the lower city swirling around her. She fought to focus, fought to do  _something_ , but the neural disruptor interfered far too much, it was a struggle just to remain standing. If she weren't bracketed by two large beings with very firm grips she'd probably be on the floor.

After long moments, blinking, squinting, she made out the figure making for her. The name of the species was eluding her at the moment — native to Hutt space, she knew that much — this particular one sharp and wicked-looking, scarred and cruel, spiking armored scales ringing eyes alight with black humor. This would be the winner of their bloody swoop race, she knew. The one who'd won her.

On any other day, this would be nothing.  _He_  would be nothing. She could prevent him even taking notice of her, she could make him say or do anything she wanted, she could send him flying across the room, she could crush him like a bug under her heel. But this wasn't any other day. She could barely manage to stay on her feet, standing here in the humiliating little getup they'd forced her into, she could only glare back at him, trying to keep anything else from showing on her face.

There was absolutely nothing she could do. She was finished.

That was the very last thought she had before, in the blink of an eye, everything went completely insane.

It started with the harsh scream of a blaster, a single shot burning into the side of the winner's head, only a couple steps in front of her, close enough her stomach turned at the smell. There was a great clattering and hollering, people in all directions going for their weapons. Before anyone could respond, the two holding her were hit, toppling limp to the ground in eerie silence, taking her down with them. And then the sound of blasterfire was overwhelming, unbroken noise turning the air thick and sharp, her head rang with it.

She heard someone stepping up to her, she tried to pull away, but her head went swimming again, she was helpless to resist the yanking at her wrists, someone pulling her along by the cuffs binding her. She stumbled after whoever it was, more falling than walking, skinning her knees more than once. After some distance she couldn't count, she was pulled down to the ground, her shoulder coming to lean against something hard and cold.

She jumped at the sound of a blaster shot coming from far too close, almost deafening. There was a wave of heat against her hands, her arms, but it didn't hurt, she hadn't been hit. Bastila forced her eyes to focus again, looking down at her hands.

The blaster was right there, she spotted it just as it fired again — the shot hit the cord linking the cuffs, burned most of the rest of the way through. Another arm came under her forearms, a human arm, the blaster turned around in their hand, and it came smashing downward. Weakened from the shots, her arms braced against another, the cord snapped. Blinking in astonishment, Bastila glanced up to face her rescuer.

She went cold, in a tingling wave starting in her head and quickly working its way downward. For an instant, she was in one of her nightmares again, staring into eyes filled with an infinite, overwhelming emptiness, reaching out to drag her down with them. She knew that face, she knew it almost as well as she did her own these days.

_Revan_.

Raised over the chaos surrounding them, blasters and repulsors and echoing explosions, her voice was hard and flat, and it was  _wrong_ , it wasn't Cianen Hayal, it was  _her_ — "Do you remember me, Shan?"

Before Bastila could even think to stop it, a shocked laugh bubbled up out of her chest. Oh, she remembered. She hadn't forgotten a thing, not a single thing.

Revan shot her a curious, suspicious sort of look, but they were interrupted again, another being sliding into a crouch against the wall on Bastila's opposite side. She noticed with no small surprise that the woman was a Bothan, the silver framing her cheeks faintly familiar. "Captain Lar'sym. Good to see you alive, Commander."

"Here, can you shoot?" The blaster was pressed into Bastila's hands before she could protest.

It occurred to her, slowly, that Revan had just given her a weapon. She'd even turned her back to Bastila, taking potshots around their cover with a rifle she hadn't noticed until just now. She didn't...

Bastila could kill her. Right now. At this range, she wasn't looking, she could shoot her in the back of the head, it'd be over in a blink, she couldn't—

She  _could_  use a blaster, theoretically — she'd been taught the basic idea ages ago, though she'd never really had occasion to put it to use. But with the neural disruptor, "That might not be wise." She doubted she'd be able to shoot straight at the moment. "Could you get this thing off?" she asked tapping at the band of metal tight against the side of her temple.

Revan shook her head. "Afraid not. We'll get Scope to take a look when we get back." Then her voice shifted slightly, turning smoother, almost a drawl. Though Bastila couldn't understand a word of it, it wasn't Basic. She paused a moment, likely listening to a response, then turned back to Bastila and Lar'sym. "Red, back to your bike. Get up, Shan, we're getting out of here."

Looking back on Revan's chaotic little rescue mission, Bastila wouldn't be able to remember much of the next minutes. Not that she'd been entirely sure what was happening at the time. She couldn't see very well, the neural disruptor reducing her to a dizzy, stumbling mess, if Revan weren't dragging her along she'd have ended up bumping into walls.

Or just walking into blasterfire — it was a constant noise, a grating screeching of superheated air and boiling metal, sounding from above and around them, but fortunately little of it aimed their way. By the sound of it, a sizeable firefight had broken out through the staging area and among the racegoers, but the bulk of it away from the platform at the core, reserved for the staff managing the race, where Bastila had been kept the whole time. There had been a few people around, but they'd already fled or been downed, she tripped over a body more than once.

Swoop bikes and airspeeders roared by overhead, her skull vibrating from repulsors at full blast, a few hovering overhead, heavier shots slicing out into the blurry distance. They'd been stumbling along a short while, just a few meters from the lift down, when Revan suddenly dove forward, dragging Bastila tumbling roughly to the floor. They'd rolled into a wall, blocking off that direction, but there was someone standing  _right there_ , she was already turning her blaster down toward Bastila, and—

A shot struck the woman in the head, she went limp and lifeless instantly. By the shape of the burned wreck carved into her skull, that shot had come from the towers above. Snipers? The scale of the fight going on out there, and now snipers, just how many people had Revan brought with her? Not that Bastila was particularly surprised, she didn't think Revan believed in overkill.

The next instant, a blackened, glowing trench was carved into the floor of the platform, an airspeeder swooping by overhead. Bastila noticed the strafing fire had cut right into where they would have been if Revan hadn't dragged them down.

That chill stole over her again, ice dripping down her spine. That speeder had come from  _behind_  them, coming too fast. Revan couldn't possibly have seen it.

_No_ , she shouldn't be able to— It should have lasted  _longer_  than—

Revan yanked her to her feet again, dragged her into the lift. The ride downward only lasted a couple seconds, Revan replacing her rifle's power cell as they went with all the smooth efficiency of a veteran soldier. The door swung open with a ping, and she started forward—

Only to duck back in, dragging Bastila around the edge, plasma flooding through the doors to hit the back wall of the lift, dozens of blaster shots incinerating the metal, she lifted an arm to shield her face from the rain of sparks. Over the cacophony, Bastila could barely hear Revan at all, despite standing right at her shoulder, barking an order.

A few seconds later, there was a quick series of low noises somewhere between a pop and a thud, and the rain of blasterfire cut off. Revan grabbed Bastila's free hand, moved her fingers to her belt at her back. "Quickly, hold on."

Revan charged out of the lift, the edge of the course under the platform, Bastila holding on and struggling just to not fall over. There had been a crowd of armed beings down here, looked to be dozens, but someone had thrown down a rain of concussion grenades, they were all knocked from their feet, dazed, drunkenly grasping for their weapons. Revan picked through the field of bodies, occasionally firing a shot into one moving too quickly.

Before long she was turning, leading Bastila down into a garage of some kind, judging by the sharp smell of plastic and hydraulics. The noise of blasterfire was even thicker in the enclosed space, heavy on the air — the battle reached down here too. Instead of trying to force their way through, Revan pulled her into a dingy little side room. Might have been a guard station a few hundred years ago, but now it was filled with discarded speeder parts in a puddle of noxious fluids, the fumes were eye-watering. Bastila ducked as close to the door as possible, covering her nose and trying to hold her breath.

Revan was talking into her wrist again, giving orders to her unseen companions. "This is Pads, package secured at launch, green. Twin Hunt, break now, pick up Scope. Heavy, your call. Red, you up?"

"I do hope you have some plan to get us out of—"

Most of her attention on a datapad strapped to her forearm, Revan only cut her the shortest, most disdainful glance before talking into her com again. "Launch in fifteen. See you at home." Revan dropped her hand, turned a look on her. A familiar look, the same one Hayal had given her half the time on the  _Spire_ , an offended, condescending sort of glare. "I'd think someone getting rescued should be a little more grateful. I have no obligation to be here, you know."

Bastila had absolutely no idea what to say to that. Instead she just glared back.

She'd been struggling to find something to say in her own defense for a few seconds when Revan grabbed at her again, yanking Bastila in her wake out of the little room. They stepped out into the gaping entrance of the garage even as an empty speeder pulled up, coasting to a stop right in front of them. Revan practically threw Bastila into the back seat — her elbow hit the edge of a seat rather hard, her hand going numb and tingling — then jumped in behind the controls. A high electric whine ringing in Bastila's ears as the repulsors cycled up, Revan disentangled herself from the strap of her rifle, tossed it carelessly back in Bastila's direction. "Fire at anyone following us. Try not to hit Asyr, she'll be on a red and black swoop."

"You can't expect me to shoot with any real accuracy with this thing still—" The airspeeder jumped forward, driving Bastila back into her seat, forcing the air from her lungs. They shot through the arena in the space of a second or two, the firefight nothing but a colorful blur below them. With a twitch that pitched Bastila onto her side, they dove into the maze of the lower city, craggy forms of permacrete and durasteel whipping past to either side faster than she could really make out.

Revan risked a quick glance back at her, lips curled in a little smirk. "Oh, and you might want to hold onto something."

The airspeeder rolled nearly ninety degrees, for a heart-stopping moment Bastila was sure she was about to topple out into the open air — which was ridiculous, all but the simplest speeders had safety features to prevent that sort of thing — but the force of the turn, arcing around a corner into another valley, pressed her into her seat hard enough there was no real danger of that. Over the next minutes Revan carved a meandering path through the maze of monolithic obstacles, blasting around towers and through gaps in concourses and catwalks at absolutely terrifying speed.

They'd gone some distance, slowly climbing their way toward the surface, when Bastila heard a heavier whine of higher-power repulsors coming from behind. Her fingers tight on the foreign rifle, she turned in her seat, tracking the swoop bike coming up on their right. She'd been an instant away from firing when Revan's earlier warning finally registered. "Is that Lar'sym?"

Slowing their dangerous flight somewhat, Revan fiddled with the console for a moment. "Asyr. We get away clean?"

The Bothan's voice hissed from the speakers built into the speeder, crackling only slightly with distortion. "A couple speeders tried to follow you, but they weren't a problem."

Bastila was sure they weren't. Between an experienced Republic starfighter pilot originally trained by the Bothan military and a few random gangsters, she didn't think there was any doubt which would come out alive.

"Ah, well, good then." Revan sounded rather surprised by the lack of pursuit — given the chaos it'd sounded like they were leaving behind them, Bastila would have been shocked if they'd managed to muster much at all. "I have Shan, we're on our way home. Everyone report."

The first voice to respond was high and thin, a girl, hardly more than a child. "We're good. Zee took a couple grazes, but they aren't nothing, he'll be fine."

"We managed to get away clean, I'm told we'll be at our speeder in five."

Bastila recognized the voice instantly. A sense of relief stole over her, a smile pulling at her lips. "Onasi? Was that Carth Onasi?"

Her voice dripping sarcasm, Revan said, "Sounds like you have a fan, Flyboy. The Jedi's wetting herself over here."

The glare she sent the back of Revan's head might have a little less heat to it than she would have liked, but she couldn't really help it. A pessimistic voice at the back of her head had been certain this "rescue" was merely taking her out of one hopeless situation and putting her into another. Because, Revan wasn't wrong: she had no particular obligation to be here. Bastila couldn't trust her to help her get back to the Republic. She wasn't certain she could trust her not to shoot her in the back.

(She could kill her. Right now. At this range, she wasn't looking, she could shoot her in the back of the head, it'd be over in a blink, she couldn't—)

Ordinarily, any captain from Starfighter Command might have been some reassurance, but she'd still had doubt. Lar'sym was a good officer, of course, but she was Bothan. The Bothans were  _allied_  with the Republic, but they weren't truly part of it — as far as they were concerned, their first and last duty was to their own people, and Bastila didn't know Lar'sym enough to know if she had any personal loyalty. If Lar'sym thought siding with Revan, even if she decided to hand Bastila over to the Sith, was better for the Bothans in the long run, Bastila couldn't predict which way she would go. Especially since Lar'sym seemed to be following Revan's lead, no, she couldn't count on her.

It was a well-kept secret in the Republic that the Bothans had nearly signed a formal treaty with the Sith very early in the war. So far, they'd managed to keep it limited to certain intelligence officers, command staff, and Jedi. There was no telling what the political fallout would be if the media got wind of  _that_.

But Onasi? Onasi she trusted. They didn't get along very well — honestly, Bastila had trouble talking to most everyone outside the Order she'd ever met — but they mostly saw eye-to-eye on principle. If Onasi were the one running the show, she might just get off Taris alive.

Bastila checked back into the conversation in time to catch an unfamiliar voice, low and gruff. "—hell of a fight, back there. Almost feel bad for checking out early."

A grin on her voice, Revan said, "I promise I'll call you next time I plan on starting something."

"Actually, I might have a proposition of my own for you. Keep the second half of my payment, and we'll call it trading favors. I'll find you after I'm done washing the blood out."

"Right, then.  _Ret'urche vi, ni burcha._ "

" _Koyachi._ "

Silence fell over the line, but only for the moment. Onasi said, sounding more amused than uneasy, "Am I the only one who finds Cina and the Mando's flirting a little creepy?"

Bastila jumped —  _Mandalorian?_  They had a  _Mandalorian_  working with them? Had they gone  _completely insane?_

Lar'sym opened the channel early, a few seconds filled only with the low chuffing of alien laughter. "If you think that's bad, never watch one of our romantic comedies. I suspect they aren't quite fit for human consumption."

"Ah, I've only seen  _Hjisthe aan shorak_  and  _Cakhine rrokul_ , but I thought they were pretty good." Somehow, Bastila wasn't at all surprised to learn that Revan spoke Bothan, and had apparently watched Bothan holos in her spare time.

"You don't count as human,  _hjanethe_."

"Aw,  _hjAsythe_ , I'm touched."

"Yeah, I'm with the Bothan on this one. You two flirting is somehow even creepier."

"Green is a bad color on you, Flyboy."

"I thought you said orange was my bad color."

"No no, see, you have no good colors."

Bastila sat back listening to the three banter on, and on. Luckily, no one was paying any particular attention to her, because she doubted she could very effectively keep the scowl from her face.

Somehow she just knew this was a bad sign.

* * *

Cina was pretty sure there was something somewhere in the Jedi Code against taking inordinately long showers. Granted, Cianen had only perused the thing out of academic curiosity, but she had the feeling this sort of indulgence was something the Jedi would have a problem with. Though, Jedi "asceticism" was a huge fucking joke, that wasn't really the point.

She was really just hoping Shan would get out here so she could get out of this awkward conversation.

"I understand, Zaalbar, I really do." The approximation of the young Wookiee's name still sounded offensively wrong to her ears — she'd taken her cue on how to pronounce it from Mission, but it was radically different from the proper Shyriiwook. She felt uncomfortable every time she said it. "And I'm not saying I don't appreciate all you, and Mission, have done for us. It's just a little...complicated."

Zaalbar shot her what she (somehow) recognized as a flat, unamused look, fingers absently clicking against the surface of the table. "I'm afraid I can't see what should be so complicated. Our debt is not yet paid."

"You were a good deal of help down there, Zaalbar." At least, she  _assumed_  he had been. Distracted getting Shan to the garage alive, she hadn't really been paying that much attention to the rest of the battle. It must have gone according to plan. What with them not being dead.

"My contribution was relatively small, all things considered. In any case, even were I uniquely responsible for your surviving that encounter, it would not cancel our debt. The hunt was entirely your idea. If you willingly put the two of us in potential danger, it does not count."

Cina winced — she'd known that, of course. Perhaps she'd simply been hoping Zaalbar wouldn't. Which was rather silly, when she thought about it, since he was the actual Wookiee here. Seriously, why  _did_  she know so much about their traditions? That got stranger and stranger the more she thought about it.

"I don't see what the big deal is either." Mission was sitting in a spot next to Zaalbar, tinkering with the neural disruptor half-disassembled across the table in front of her. It'd only taken a few short minutes for Mission to figure out how to get it off Shan. Of course, Mission being Mission, she'd been playing with it ever since. "I mean, do you want to get rid of us that much? We'll just keep hanging around, the debt'll get paid eventually."

"It's  _really_  not that simple."

"Yeah, why not, though?"

Carth chose that moment to jump in. Smiling over his cup of caf, looking a little too pleased with himself, he said, "We're not staying on Taris, kid."

" _Don't_  call me—"

"Now that we have Bastila, we're getting off this rock as soon as we possibly can. We're simply not going to be here for Zaalbar to pay off this debt of his."

For a couple seconds, the two of them just stared at Carth, eye wide and slowly blinking. Then they turned to each other, hands flicking in turn in what Cina instantly recognized as RSL. Cina understood sign, of course, but this was obviously meant to be a private conversation. She leaned in toward Carth, turning away from the silent discussion across the table. "Could you cut it out with the 'kid' stuff?" she whispered. "She really hates it."

His brow lowered in a light frown. "She's what, fourteen? I don't know how they do things on Shelkonwa, but..." He sounded almost disappointed, as though he'd expected better moral judgement from her.

Which was just so bloody hypocritical she couldn't help glaring at him a bit. "Carth, she's  _literally_  killed people for us." He winced at that, one hand rising to rub at his cheek. "She may be young, but she's not a kid. Taris never allowed her to be. So cut it out. Okay?"

He didn't say anything, eyes unfocused and expression stricken, his thoughts clearly on something else. But he did nod, so she considered that an issue settled.

Mission and Zaalbar were still signing at each other, Cina quite consciously looking anywhere but in their direction, when the bathroom door finally opened. A glance over her shoulder and there Shan was, looking far more like herself. The clothes were wrong, of course, simple trousers and tunic in muted colors Cina had picked up for her in head of time. She'd guessed Shan's size from memory, and she'd gotten pretty close — the trousers were a bit tight around her hips, but she'd clearly been able to get them on, so close enough.

It was more in how she held herself than anything. That quintessentially Jedi sort of bearing, self-assurance so overwhelming it edged more than a little into arrogance, a subtle sense of superiority in her eyes, as though looking down her nose at they silly, Force-blind children. There were reasons ordinary people didn't like Jedi so much, just being in a room with one could be annoying sometimes.

Cina frowned — wait, she'd decided just yesterday she must have been a Jedi before the mind-wipe. She... She hadn't been anything like Shan, or most of the other Jedi she'd met. Had she? She somehow couldn't imagine herself being so... She didn't know what word she was looking for. It just felt wrong somehow, Shan-ifying herself in her head.

Shan was naturally irritating, but Cina should  _try_  to be nice anyway. She had just gone through what had to have been a fairly traumatic experience. "There's food in the oven, and there should still be some caf left."

"I don't drink caf." Amazing, how much smug superiority one person could cram into a statement so short and mundane.

Cina did try to keep the annoyance off her face. She didn't think she did very well, but she  _did_  try. "Fine, then, drink the bottled water — I wouldn't touch the tap, if I were you."

There was a short moment, barely a flinch, something else breaking through Shan's detached Jedi mask. Something fragile, something vulnerable, something...frightened. But then it was gone, so quickly it might not have been there at all.

But it had been, Cina had seen it. She knew, quite suddenly, that whatever the Jedi had done to her Shan was in the know. Shan knew who Cina used to be.

She knew, and she was  _afraid_  of her.

Shite, now she had to try even harder to be nice...

"Right, we're going with you then."

Cina blinked, tore her eyes away from Bastila back to Mission. The girl was grinning again, that way she had where she was practically glowing, wide enough Cina caught the tips of pointed teeth. (She must have picked that up from humans, Twi'leks didn't natively show their teeth in non-threatening expressions.) "I'm sorry, what?"

"We're going with you, when you leave the planet. Me and Zee."

"You've got to be kidding me," Carth groaned, one hand coming up to rub at his forehead. For her part, Asyr looked equally exasperated, though she'd apparently decided it wasn't her business, focusing the bulk of her attention on her datapad.

For a long moment, Cina sat back, mostly ignoring the increasing volume of the argument growing between Mission and Carth. (It mostly seemed to consist of childish insults, she wasn't missing anything.) That proposition was...complicated. In an ordinary situation, she might have gone along with it, if for no other reason because she'd be able to get the both of them — who were, as much as they would argue the point, essentially children — out of what were very unstable, exploitative living conditions. Maybe fly back to Alderaan and sponsor them for refugee status, that sounded like a brilliant idea.

But...well, Cianen Hayal wasn't real. She had no idea what would happen if she tried to go back to the University. Cianen did exist  _legally_ , of course — she probably could sponsor them anyway, or just outright adopt them, that would skip all the hoops in the process and give them instant Alderaanian citizenship — but there wasn't really a life waiting for her back in Aldera.

The problem was, she had no idea what was going to happen after Taris. She definitely had to talk to Shan about what was going on, but she had a feeling the Jedi would demand... _something_  from her, she couldn't guess what at the moment. Getting off Taris wouldn't be the end of it, was the point.

She had absolutely no idea what she might be dragging them into. It was complicated.

"You will not be coming with us."

Cina focused back on her surroundings to find Mission glaring at Shan, the expression almost impressively toxic, considering how sweet and cheerful the girl usually was. "Hey, do I go sticking my nose in your business?"

Her voice forced flat and casual, as though defining fundamental terminology in an introductory syntax course full of hungover first-year undergrads, Cina said, "Sticking their noses into other people's business is roughly ninety-five percent of everything Jedi do with their time."

Most of the rest of the table looked less than impressed with her little joke, but Mission broke into scandalised giggles, so she'd define that one a success.

Shan seemed to be trying to pretend she hadn't heard Cina at all. But she didn't miss the slight scrunching of her nose, the narrowing of her eyes, as though she could smell something awful but was trying to not draw attention to it. "I don't know how you've handled this operation in my absence," she said, directed more to Carth than anyone, "but the Republic does not condone pressing into service civilians and children or the hiring of Mandalorian mercenaries."

Astoundingly, Mission didn't say anything to that, her jaw working in silence, face caught somewhere between offense and confusion — if Cina had to guess, she couldn't decide which part she wanted to yell at Shan about first.

Cina was equally flabbergasted, Asyr ended up getting to it first. Not even deigning to lift her eyes from whatever she was reading, she grumbled, "I hope you realize, Master Jedi, that without the assistance of  _civilian children and Mandalorian mercenaries_  we would have been hard-pressed to get anywhere near you. Perhaps you would rather not have been rescued, our mistake."

In a transparent attempt to hide her irritation, Shan forced out a haughty scoff. "You call  _that_  a rescue?"

"Given the resources available to us, I can't imagine anyone could have done much better." Cina shot Carth a quick look. Was he actually defending her? That was weird, he'd spent the whole bloody time they've been on this planet complaining, saying she was— "Granted, I can't help but feel she's completely insane half the time, but it's always worked out in the end." Ah, there it was.

"If that chaos is the best you can envis..." Shan's voice slowly trailed off. Eyes flicking to Cina, slow and dead, " _She_... Hayal was in command."

Cina shrugged. "I don't know if I'd call it that, but I've been the one coming up with all the ideas, yeah. Turns out the Republic military doesn't teach its people basic problem solving."

Chuckling under his breath, Carth said, "Cina, there is nothing 'basic' about your problem solving."

"It worked, didn't it?"

"I'm just saying, starting a gang war to give you cover for a rescue mission isn't what I would call 'basic'. You keep things interesting, I'll give you that, but there is nothing linear about however you thought up of that."

She shrugged — that was just basic logic. They hadn't the numbers to fight them all outright, and the lower city had essentially already been in the middle of a low-key turf war for years. The gangs hadn't mixed at their makeshift arena, they'd all kept to their own. The obvious solution was to place her people here and there in the middle of as many of the gangs as she could, and have each of them fire all at once into one of their neighbors; in the heat of the moment, they would all think they were being attacked by a rival gang, and respond accordingly. Once they'd had the fight started, they'd just had to defend themselves and stay out of the fucking way.

After all, the rank and file members of these gangs cared  _far_  more about their own feuds than they did holding on to a prize of dubious value only one of them would get to keep. The math was quite simple, really.

But defending her methods wasn't really her priority at the moment. Shan had reacted to the news that she was in charge very...well, strangely. She was staring at Cina, her eyes wide, lips slightly parted, looking almost... It was very subtle, Cina couldn't be entirely sure she was seeing what she thought she was seeing. But, if she had to put a word to it, something about the idea left Shan quietly horrified.

After a few moments, choking back a gulp of water and shifting in her seat, the Jedi managed to collect herself. "Regardless, I am the commanding officer of this mission, and—"

"You ain't the commanding nothing of  _this_  Mission."

Cina didn't quite manage to suffocate a laugh. Clearly, her punning had been a terrible influence.

"You're a prissy, ungrateful little,  _sleemo_ , you know that? And I thought Jedi were supposed to be  _nice_."

"You don't know what you're talking about, child. I—

"Really, you should be thanking Cina, you owe her your stupid life. She's not Republic, she didn't have to be down there saving your selfish ass—"

She was trying to hide it, but by the tension in her jaw and her shoulders Shan was starting to get seriously annoyed. "Your presence here is no longer necessary. I don't know how Hayal managed to coerce you into—"

"Coerce!" Mission, on the other hand, was doing absolutely nothing to hide her own anger. She'd even jumped up to her feet, her chair clattering down to the floor behind her, fists clenched at her side and lekku starting to darken with a flush. Even Zaalbar looked like he was getting fed up with the Jedi, fur along his shoulders rising and dark eyes twinkling with silent rage. "Listen, you spice-mad black-blooded  _scum-sucking slag_ ," she snarled in Huttese, then, switching back to Basic, "we weren't coerced into  _nothing!_  We  _volunteered_  to help Cina, and without me she never would have even  _found_  you, me and Cina are the only reason you're not stuck with Qraknee being raped to death right now, so  _shut your fucking—!"_

"Mission." Miraculously, the girl cut off at the sound of her name, eyes flicking over to Cina, looking almost sheepish. "I need to talk to you two about something, but first we need to finish up here. Why don't you both go wait in my room. Second door on the right," she said, pointing over to the hall leading further into the apartment.

After another short moment of glaring at the Jedi, the pair shuffled off, muttering to each other low enough Cina couldn't pick it out. Fingers folded behind his head, Carth let out a low whistle. "That kid's a pain the ass sometimes, but I gotta admit she's got spunk."

Asyr snorted. "Well, you're not wrong."

And they didn't even speak Huttese. "Anyway, we were saying..." Cina turned to Shan; she was staring after Mission, her face blank, though an emptier sort of blankness than she usually went for. Less self-righteous, more shaken. "You want to be in charge? Go right ahead, Master Jedi, be my guest. So, how  _do_  you intend to get us off-planet?"

Shan just stared at her for a moment, blinking. "Ah, we will need a ship, of course."

"That shouldn't be a problem," Asyr said, her tone deceptively light. (Cina would bet Asyr had spotted the same dilemma she had.) "I'm certain we could steal a suitable one without too much difficulty."

Astoundingly, Shan looked uncomfortable with the thought of jacking themselves proper transportation, shifting awkwardly in her seat. Bloody Jedi, honestly, did she  _want_  to be captured and tortured? "I suppose. Once we're up—"

"The Sith blockade will reduce us to plasma before we even get out of atmo."

Shan snapped back to her — the shocked offense on her face, Cina had to bite her lip to keep herself from bursting into laughter. "I assumed we would simply run the blockade..."

"In a ship large enough to carry all of us?" Asyr shook her head, the fur on her face softly shivering with amusement. "I could maybe make a break for hyperspace in a one-person snubfighter, but in a larger craft we'll be dust before we get anywhere close."

Wincing, Carth said, "Yeah, I'm afraid I have to agree with Lar'sym. There's no way we're flying out of here. Best chance I see, we just have to lie low until the blockade's over."

Cina shook her head. "No good. If Mission could identify Shan through the net, you can be sure the Sith know she's here somewhere. She's probably the only reason they haven't lifted the blockade already. They'll keep the planet on lockdown until they have her."

"The planet isn't completely quarantined. They would still have their own people moving up and down." Shan glanced between the three of them, pretending as though she weren't looking for confirmation. "Perhaps if we stole one of their transports—"

"They'd report it quicker than we can kill the whole crew."

"Besides, their landing craft won't be hyperdrive-equipped. It won't get us out of the system."

Shan's lip curled for a moment with annoyance before once again vanishing behind a curtain of Jedi placidity. "Could we remove their transponder and plant it in a ship of our choosing?"

Asyr actually considered that one for a second, her datapad drooping a bit and her eyes narrowing. "Well, just the transponder wouldn't be enough. They would query the navcomputer, so you'd need to take that too. Whatever ship you transplanted it to would have to have systems compatible with that particular model, and since their landing craft aren't intended for hyperspace travel..." She shrugged. "That's possible, I suppose. But you'd need to rewire the ship to support two parallel computer systems, one linked into the coms and the other the primaries. That'd take a week at least — longer, since we don't have a professional tech on hand."

"Which is far too long, of course," Cina said. "Assuming the crew don't report it immediately, you have a window of  _maybe_  a couple hours before they flag the I.D. Even just taking the transponder, you might not have long enough to wire it in."

"Not to mention Imperial military systems are all encrypted. The rest of the ship's systems will crash immediately when you try to use it."

Shan was going oddly pale, her fingers tapping at the table. "Maybe if we just copy the recognition codes onto a different ship..."

Rolling her eyes, Cina said, "Yeah, nice try, but no. We could strip them from an Imperial ship but, again, that'll be reported long before we're done. Your best bet would be to register a new I.D., but the only place on-planet you could possibly do that is their planetary command centre, right above our heads. Even assuming we had the numbers to break in and hold the place long enough to get what we need — which we really,  _really_  don't — they would  _definitely_  notice that. We'd end up pinned under enough firepower to incinerate the whole tower by the time we're finished."

What she didn't mention was that they did have a slicer on hand who  _might_  be able to pull off what they needed without even stepping foot in the building. Mission had said she had experience playing with Imperial code, after all. But Shan didn't even want Mission involved, Cina wasn't going to bring her up. At least not until after Shan admitted she had no bloody clue what she was doing.

Seriously, Cina had a better understanding of the problem and she couldn't even remember learning all this shite.

"Any other brilliant ideas, Commander?" There might have been more than a hint of sarcasm on Cina's voice saying the title.

Shan did seem to be giving up already. She'd leaned forward, a hand against her forehead propping her up. She let out a long, exhausted sigh, her voice peculiarly unsteady. If Cina didn't know better, she would almost suspect Shan was  _having feelings_ , but this was a Jedi she was talking about, so she must be mistaken.

Though, being the only nice person in the room, Carth didn't let her wallow very long. "This is why you had advisors with you on the task force, Bastila. There's no shame admitting you don't know something. Nobody expects any Jedi to know these things."

Cina smirked. "I don't know, I can think of a few exceptions. Off the top of my head, oh, Revan, maybe?" Onasi and Shan both shot her absolutely venomous glares, she shrugged back. "I'm right and you know it. It's not my fault you have the arrogance to think you can command a fleet without educating yourself on basic military practices first."

" _Hjanethe_ , you are not helping."

"Right, sorry. I'll be nice." She wasn't sorry at all, of course, but Shan had clearly gotten the message by now. She knew to stop kicking someone when they're down.

* * *

" _Finally_ , what was taking you so—" Mission cut off, her eyes bulging almost comically wide. "Ah, hi, Canderous. What's up?"

Waving Kandosa in behind her, Cina said, "Canderous has a plan to get us all off-planet. I was wondering if you could help us work out the kinks."

Kandosa gave Mission, sitting cross-legged on Cina's borrowed bed, a long, evaluating stare. The girl shifted under the Mandoade's gaze, which she couldn't really blame her for — Kandosa had quite a stare, and he was a bloody intimidating man to begin with. Tall and broad-shouldered, muscular but compact, bare arms littered with scars from blades and blasters and blotches that looked curiously like the results of a caustic chemical spill, he certainly looked like the kind of bloke who would tear your throat out as soon as blink.

But his face, no matter how rigid his expression and merciless his eyes, was missing even the slightest hint of malice. "You're Scope? The slicer?" Kandosa's voice was low and gruff, though without the note of doubt someone else might have had.

"Oh, yeah." Mission was frowning to herself, probably realised just that second she and Kandosa had never actually met face-to-face before. "Um, what kinks?"

Turning to Cina and switching to Mandoa, Kandosa muttered, "She sounded young, but I didn't think she was  _this_  young."

Cina shrugged. "I trust her."

His only response to that was a slow, solemn nod. "Alright,  _ad'ika_. I've taken a liking to Davik's ship. Wanna help me steal it?"

Mission's eyes went wide again, her mouth dropping open. Even Zaalbar had dropped the bit of machinery he was tinkering with — he did always seem to be doing that — staring at Kandosa with an equally blank expression. After some long silent seconds, her eyes slowly drifted over to Cina. "Is this for real? We're gonna steal Davik Kang's ship? Seriously?"

"That's the plan." Cina's lips tilted into a smirk. "You in?"

" _Fuck yes_ , I'm in!" Mission jumped, her hand snapping up to cover her mouth. "Stang," she muttered, the word coming out rather muffled. She reached into a pocket, pulled out a credit chit, flicked it over toward Zaalbar. He smoothly caught it, slipped it into a pouch on his belt without a word.

Cina had to bite the inside of her lip to keep the smile off her face.

"I can get us to the ship no problem," Kandosa was saying, seemingly unaffected by the moment of adorableness. (But, Mandoade.) "What I can't do is get the recognition codes to get us through the blockade. I was hoping you could help with that."

Her face sinking into a frown, Mission leaned back a bit to stare up at the ceiling, fingers of one hand tapping idly at her lip. "I mean...maybe? I'd need to register new codes, right?"

Cina nodded. "That would be safest, yes."

"Sure, I  _should_  be able to do that. I've already cracked most of the Imp encrypts, it shouldn't take more than a half hour or so. Getting at 'em in the first place will be the problem. I'd need into the central system, there's no access from the outside."

"Their computers are on a wireless network." Kandosa seemed strangely certain of that...

"Yeah, but it's not on the net. I mean, their internal network is isolated from the holonet, physically, you can't slice in. And the building is shielded and everything. Maybe we can cut in somewhere near the bottom, but they'd have to be pretty stupid to not notice that."

"Wait." The two of them turned to look at her, Kandosa with a single dark eyebrow expectantly raised. (The one with the claw marks cut through it, actually, hard not to notice.) "Kandosa, can you get inside the building?"

His head tilted a little. "Davik has an arrangement with the locals. I sometimes act as an intermediary with certain contacts. Yes, I can get in the building, but I think bringing Scope in with me might raise a few eyebrows."

"Do you carry a com?"

"Oh!" An ecstatic grin spreading across her face, Mission was bouncing a little in excitement, the old bed creaking a little with each dip. "You got one? Lemme see it." With a quick look at Cina, a tolerant smile twitching at his lips, he unclipped a plain, innocuous-looking com from his belt, handed it over. Mission fiddled with the thing for a little bit, occasionally tapping at the pad strapped to her wrist. "Ah ha,  _perfect_. You mind if I keep this for, ah, an hour and a half, maybe? Not enough memory to download all the files we'll need. It'll still work when I'm done."

"Hold up a sec." Mission blinked up at Kandosa, her fingers defensively tightening around the com. "I thought you said the building was shielded. You can't skip across my com to do your slicing if the signal's blocked."

"No, see, the  _net_  signal is blocked, coms get through just fine. They have to, so they can talk to all their little Sith all over the planet."

"Then why do you need to download the files to the com? Couldn't you just send them out to you?"

"Well," Mission muttered, shuffling a little, "ah, I don't  _need_  to. But they should be monitoring the com traffic coming in and out. Not actively listening, but tracking the bandwidth and stuff. Slicing in probably won't be noticed, but broadcasting  _that_  much data? If I were the one designing their system, I would have that trip an alarm automatically. Now, I don't  _know_  if it will, but, I thought, just in case."

"Just in case," Kandosa agreed, with another slow nod. "Do what you need, but you'll owe me a new one if you break it."

"Not gonna break it. But sure."

Kandosa gave the girl another serious nod. Then, so smoothly one would think he wasn't changing the subject at all, he turned to Cina. "Javyar's?"

She felt her eyebrows wander up her forehead. Was he really suggesting they go to the cantina just for the hell of it? That seemed oddly...un-Mandoa. They generally didn't do things just for the hell of it. But she shrugged her confusion off. "Sure. I just need a minute with these two quick, and I'll be down."

With a last nod, Kandosa turned on his heel and walked out of the room. Man of few words, this one. (But, Mandoade.)

Apparently, Mission had checked out of the conversation as soon as she had permission to tinker with Kandosa's com. She already had a bundle of tiny little electronics tools spread out across the bed — must have had them hidden away somewhere, Cina hadn't seen her reach for them — half of the com's casing already removed to reveal the tangled innards. Honestly, she couldn't even pretend to be surprised. Mission was an excitable kid, couldn't expect her to hold it in when she had a new toy to play with.

At least Zaalbar was paying attention. But then, he was always paying attention.

"We need to talk, about you two coming with us."

Mission twitched, wide eyes jumping up to hers. "Oh! Yeah, right." She placed the partially-disassembled com on the surface of the bed, every movement slow and gentle. "But, there's really not anything to talk about. We're coming with." It was said with confident assertion, yet with a hint of confrontation, as though at once stating a fundamental fact of the universe and a low  _you got a problem with that?_

Cina had to bite the inside of her lip to keep herself from smiling again. This girl was just so adorable sometimes. (Twi'lek, yes, she was blaming it on that, Twi'leks were unfairly adorable in general.) "Not particularly, no." Mission and Zaalbar were far better company than Carth and Shan, at least. "I simply want to make sure what you're getting into. I have no idea if or when I'll ever be getting back to Taris. If you stick with me, it could months, years before you ever have the chance to come back."

"That's fine." Shrugging to herself a little Mission said, "It's not like either of us really have anything here worth sticking around for, you know? Zaalbar, he just got here a few years ago, and he really hardly even talks to anyone besides me. And, well, I  _used_  to have a brother here, but he ran off, I don't even know which planet he's on these days. Or if he's even still alive. I got a few friends with the Beks, yeah, but no one I'll be too sorry to miss even if I never come back.

"Um, honestly," she said, eyes sheepishly darting away, "me and Zee have been looking for a good opportunity to get off-world for a while now. That's what I wanted the credits from the sabaac game for in the first place, we've been saving up to buy a place on some nice backwater world, or our own ship maybe. Even without Zee's lifedebt going on, we might have tried to weasel our way along."

Shooting the back of Mission's head a surly look, Zaalbar grumbled, "I do not weasel."

Mission rolled her eyes. "Alright, fine,  _I_  would try to weasel our way along. Just, don't get all guilty about dragging us along, yeah? Timing could be better, but we want to come. Give me a couple days to clone our accounts and my library where I can get at it off-world, and we're good."

Thinking ahead to this conversation, Cina had expected...she didn't know, for there to be at least  _some_  reluctance on Mission's part to leave everything and everyone (except Zaalbar) she knew behind. It was just a normal person reaction to this sort of situation, one would think.

She remembered, when Cianen had left Shelkonwa for the University, it'd been in a very conflicted state of mind. There hadn't been a whole lot for her on Shelkonwa — she hadn't belonged there, she'd always been too...too bookish, too contrary, her hometown had just been too small for her. The whole damn planet had just been too small for her. And it wasn't a whole lot of people who landed a scholarship at the home campus in Aldera, as they were one of the premier educational institutions in the entire sodding galaxy and could afford to be extremely selective. But on the other hand, she  _had_  lived there her whole life, it was everything she'd ever known, she'd only seen Aldera in holos before, read about it in books. And, as much as they might fight, she  _did_  love her family...

...was what she  _remembered_  thinking, but now that she thought back on it the feeling wasn't really there. She remembered Cianen's parents, her siblings and cousins, of course she remembered them, it hadn't even been that long since she'd seen them. (She did at least try to get back for the holidays.) But, she remembered their faces, she remembered  _everything_ , and she...

She felt nothing.

Because the memories were empty, they weren't  _real_. Cianen didn't exist, her family didn't exist. The person she'd once been did have family of some kind out there somewhere, she knew that — a few things she'd thought or said here or there certainly hinted at that. But she hardly remembered anything about them. She'd come up with the name of a single cousin, she was pretty sure she had at least one brother, she  _vaguely_  remembered a rough outline of what her father might have looked like. That was all she had.

She might not remember what her parents looked like, or anything about them at all, no more than a few brief flashes of her entire childhood, but feelings came through a little better. It was quite clear to her that she had  _not_  been on good terms with her family. She couldn't remember what that had been about, but...

Actually, come to think of it, she might have a theory. She'd guessed by now that she'd almost certainly been a Jedi. From the  _very_  few foggy memories she had, she suspected her parents had had absolutely no idea what to do about her and her magic powers. Perhaps she'd been sent to the Jedi against her will, and she'd never forgiven them for it.

Which did seem a little silly to her. She meant, with how old she was that had to have been, what, twenty years ago? more? To still be worked up over it seemed a bit...petty.

Anyway, before she'd gotten distracted, the point had been that she would have expected Mission's willingness to leave Taris behind to come as a surprise to her, to feel...she didn't know, pity, maybe. But, in the moment, it was just... Well, it was just what it was.

She understood perfectly, such a perspective felt natural to her, and that realisation was rather confusing. Just what she  _been_  like, before the Jedi fucked with her head?

With a sense of sinking dread, Cina abruptly remembered there was someone on hand who might actually be able to tell her. About who she had been, about  _everything_. But that meant she had to have a personal conversation with Bastila bloody Shan.

Son of a bitch. That was just perfect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Kandosa — Canderous's name in Mandoa. Will be used in sections narrated by Cina or Canderous himself._
> 
> _Mir'osiksii_  —  _This is pieced together from canon Mandoa._ Mir'osik  _translates to "shit for brains";_ sii _, from what I can tell, seems to be some sort of adjective/attributive suffix. Just using_ mir'osik  _to describe a noun instead of as a noun._
> 
> _Chakaar_  —  _Insult, similar meaning to "scumbag"_
> 
> [ _Kandosa, ken copaani sa-talganr. Ache naar ven parji, juaan ni sa tagar lise ast-kiramur. Jat?_ ] —  _Constructed from canon Mandoa, though with a couple invented grammar things and slight changes to reflect Cina's rural accent. Means something like: "Canderous, please don't go starting a fight. At least until after the job is done, then as far as I'm concerned you two can kill each other. Okay?"_
> 
> (The rest of the conversation) —  _Cand: "Of course, friend (what he calls Cina). I'll be as soft as sponge cake." Cina: "Liar." Cand: "Are you calling me a liar?" Cina: "That's exactly what I said. Is your helmet—"_
> 
> _Aruetii — outsider or enemy (i.e. non-Mandalorian)_
> 
> _Ad'ika — boy, girl, kid (affectionately)_
> 
> _Ret'urche vi_  —  _Standard farewell, slight spelling alteration to reflect Cina's accent._
> 
> _Koyachi — Another set phrase, used by Canderous here as a more casual sort of farewell. Canon spelling changed for reasons._
> 
> _Nerds want explanation on Mandoa spelling changes? I can_ _ **so**_   _do that. First of all, the use of "y" in canon Mandoa is very European, with the baggage inherited from the complex linguistic history of the continent. The whole vowel-or-a-consonant thing. I've reanalyzed the "y" as either a vowel (in these contexts changed to "i"), a consonant, or a modifier on an adjacent consonant (i.e. "cy" becomes "ch")._
> 
> _Also, apostrophes. Canon Mandoa puts apostrophes at the intersection of any two morphemes (excluding plurals and certain inflections). I only write them when they're phonologically meaningful. As an example,_ Mandoa  _doesn't need one because the language doesn't allow diphthongs, so the vowels would be pronounced distinctly anyway. But in_ mir'osik _, the apostrophe is necessary to mark the syllable break (mir-o-sik, not mi-ro-sik). In cases like_ koyachi _, I disagree with the convention set by the original creator. Commands are formed be sticking "ke-" at the beginning of a verb, the "e" dropping if the vowel starts with a vowel. I thought it made more sense to interpret the "e" as epenthetic, in which case I think it's just kinda silly to have that apostrophe there._
> 
> _Yes, much nerd, I know._
> 
> * * *
> 
> _Cina and Bastila are both going to absolutely hate that conversation._
> 
> _Might be a little while until the next chapter comes out. I've been feeling completely horrible lately, which means little ability to do pretty much anything. Seems to be brain-related, so writing in particular is fucked._
> 
> _Whenever I get to it, though, last Taris chapter. Woo._
> 
> _(Because fuck Taris.)_


	10. Taris — V

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  _Hi._ O_O
> 
> _Notes at the end._

_The girl was here again._

_It would be difficult to miss her. Most Jedi, they stood in the force as sieves in a river, the Force flowing through them with no resistance. Oh, the analogy wasn't perfect — they did carry their power with them, glowing to her senses like an overcharged battery, but the impression she got was one overwhelmingly passive. Jedi, for the most part, were a sort of being fundamentally excised of will, allowing themselves to be touched or to be moved, not through any motivation of their own, but by the nebulous will of the Force._

_Which was, of course, delusional. It astounded Kreia, still after all these years, how firmly people believed something like the Force was even capable of having a will of its own. They were listening to an echo, searching for meaning outside of themselves, the likelihood that they were hearing their own voices somehow never occurring to them._

_But young Lesami was different. She was powerful, yes, it would be impossible to not notice. So hot Kreia could feel her from near the opposite end of the library, burning so bright, only a handful of Jedi she'd ever met could compare. She was powerful, but that wasn't what made her different, no. Most Jedi were passive, their presence in the Force smooth, soft. This girl, very distinctive, she was focused, sharp, an intensity about her that was impossible to miss, a low-boiling passion thick through every inch of her soul._

_She'd been this way when she'd first come to Coruscant — must be five years now, Kreia lost track so easily — and she hadn't changed. Most children, when they came to the Temple their edges were gradually worn away, focus blunted and will softened, until they were as passive and empty as the majority of their Order. Some few exceptions, this girl among them, something in them rejected the influence of their teachings, became only harder, sharpening to a keen intensity none in their presence could ignore. It was an itch on the mind, a tingle on the skin, instinct to_ look _, something here deserved attention._

_A subtle sense of danger, most would say. She believed it was somewhat more complex than that._

_Kreia had noticed her, sitting alone in the library, quite often of late. She'd noticed, because Jedi her age only rarely spent this much time reading alone, their attentions were often elsewhere. And on today of all days..._

_Well. Kreia found herself curious._

_By the time she was finished typing out her report on the condition of this week's batch of holocrons, the girl was still sitting there. Deciding there was nothing particularly pressing to occupy her time, Kreia crossed the length of the empty library, coming to hover over the girl's shoulder. "I'm surprised to find you here, Apprentice."_

_Lesami twitched, turning to glance over her shoulder. "Should I not be?"_

" _I'm sure I couldn't say. 'Should' implies obligation, and I am not in a position to be familiar with your obligations. I_ expected  _you to be elsewhere — 'should' has nothing to do with it."_

_For a brief moment, the girl stared up at her, that sharply-honed focus tuned on her with all the intensity of a lightsaber in her face. "You're Kreia, aren't you? The blind Archivist."_

_Kreia huffed, her shoulders twitching with her breath. Slipping around to sit at the opposite side of the table, she said, "Is that what they call me these days? I can't say I'm surprised that I've been reduced to my profession and my disability, but I would think, with all the effort we put into educating them, Jedi would have more creativity than that."_

_Her lips twitched, the air singing with her amusement. Painfully precise upper-class Basic twisting with a sarcastic drawl, "They also say you're mad, if that makes you feel better."_

" _I'm not surprised by that either." A thin smile pulling at her lips, Kreia leaned a little over the table. "I've found, especially in our circles, that madness is used less as a descriptor and more a pejorative. People who you do not understand, people who make you think, who make you question the foundations of what you believe you know. People who make you uncomfortable, these people are mad. No, I'm not at all surprised they say I'm mad."_

_Lesami said nothing for a moment, simply staring back at her, something deep in that brilliant abyss of her mind churning away. "How do you get around, anyway? I've always wondered about that."_

" _Are you saying you couldn't find your way around the Temple with your eyes closed?"_

" _Well, yes, I suppose I could. How do you_ read _, though? I'm sure I couldn't do that."_

_She smiled. "Oh, it's not complicated, I'm sure you'll figure it out. But I didn't come here to talk about me. Believe me, I've had quite enough of talking about me some decades ago." The lectures she'd gotten back in her twenties were quite simply innumerable — she hadn't dealt with the reality of her rapidly-fading sight well at all, at the time, she'd had a few difficult years. Even now, decades later, she tried to avoid the other Masters whenever possible._

_More than on her face — fine contours like that were_ very  _hard to pick up, Kreia never had gotten the hang of it — she felt Lesami close off, her sense of her almost seeming to contract, focusing inward. "I don't much feel like talking about me either."_

" _That's a curious assumption to make. I am an Archivist. Why should anything but your reading material be any of my concern?"_

" _I honestly have no idea, but the first thing you said to me was that you're surprised to find me here. That implies something else." Lesami paused, just for a second. "Besides, you're not a general Archivist. You manage the restricted holocrons, which I'm not even allowed to touch. I doubt you have any idea what I've been reading."_

_Kreia shrugged — all of that was correct. "Regardless, you're in my domain right now, Apprentice. You can either submit to my curiosity, or you can get out of my library."_

" _As you say, Master." There was a hint of sarcasm on the title, a tinge of bitterness._

_She felt herself smiling again. "Correct me if I'm wrong — as much of my days as I spend communing with holocrons, I find I lose track of time quite easily. But I was under the impression there's a Proving today."_

_Lesami turned somehow sharper, a dark edge threading through her. "I didn't want to participate."_

" _At your age? I find that hard to believe." Lesami twitched, moved to respond, but Kreia cut out ahead of her. "As much as Jedi may think we can strip ourselves of all of our irrational impulses, the drive toward competition is instinctual to most sapient species. Especially among adolescents, it's unavoidable. And that is not the only reason your age is a factor. How many initiates are there left in your peer group?"_

" _Not many." The words were tense, thick, ground out from between clenched teeth._

" _No, I wouldn't imagine there are. An initiate only has so long to attract a master before Reassignment begins to wonder about their future, and most your age have already moved on. The entire purpose of the Provings is to arrange for Jedi to encounter potential padawans. One would think an initiate of your age would be taking every opportunity available to her."_

" _I_ am  _taking every opportunity available to me."_

" _I'm afraid I don't see how."_

_For long moments, Lesami didn't answer. She simply sat there, her breath thick and heavy, tingling waves of irritation cresting against Kreia's face. Finally, she calmed somewhat, her voice consciously flat. "Our instructors have already been trying to brace me for failure. They don't come out and say what they're saying, of course, but they're not as subtle as they think they are. I'm not going to get picked, everyone knows it._

" _The Jedi Archives is the greatest single concentration of knowledge in the entire bloody galaxy. The way I see it, there is no better use for the little time here I have left."_

" _Hmm." Kreia let that hang for a moment, her fingers idly tapping at the table. "Members of the Service Corps are permitted access to our library."_

" _I don't plan on staying. They don't pay as much attention to them as they do proper Jedi. Once I've washed out, I'm going back home."_

" _That's a curious thing to be admitting to a Master of the Order."_

_Lesami snorted. "Like you care. Besides, it doesn't matter. The second they send me off Coruscant there's nothing the Order can do to stop me from walking away."_

_The girl wasn't wrong about that — or, at least, mostly. The Jedi did keep watch over their own members, out of a questionable sense of duty to the rest of the galaxy. It was a constant low-level dread among the leaders of their Order, that one of the many beings they'd trained might turn their backs, fall to the Dark, and carve a swath of death and chaos through the galaxy before they could be stopped. It wasn't unheard of for a Jedi to leave, and be allowed to leave, though the Order always kept an eye on them when they did, usually for the rest of their lives, often did their best to get them to change their mind._

_The more volatile cases, those the Order feared were already too close to the Dark Side, those were captured and brought back to the Temple, where they were essentially imprisoned until the Council felt they were no longer a danger. Some were held for the rest of their natural lives._

_The Jedi did not have a perfectly clean record when it came to managing their own dissenters._

_It was true, however, that the Service Corps was watched much less closely. The vast majority of the former initiates there were ones that hadn't the ability to finish their training. There were a few who simply hadn't the temperament, but for the most part they were considered a lesser potential danger. While it was very rare for a Jedi to walk away from the Order proper, the Service Corps bled former initiates at a non-negligible rate._

_Considering how obviously powerful Lesami was, Kreia was certain she would be more tightly managed than most. But, given her family's influence and her personal inclinations, she didn't doubt Lesami would be gone in a matter of weeks._

_And that would be quite unfortunate._

" _And why do you think that is?"_

_There was a short pause, Lesami too disoriented by the subject change to answer immediately. "I... What?"_

" _You are quite certain nobody will want you for a padawan. Why is that?"_

_The girl's mouth worked in near-silence for a moment. "Ah, well, I'm right, aren't I?"_

" _That's not an answer."_

" _It doesn't matter_ why _. I'm not wrong."_

" _Now, now, Apprentice," Kreia said, her lips tilting into a smirk, "I know you don't believe that."_

_Kreia couldn't see such things, of course, but she felt rather confident in her assumption that Lesami was rolling her eyes. "I would make a terrible Jedi. Everybody says so. No Knight or Master has even showed the barest hint of interest for very long at all, I've been told multiple times to prepare myself for disappointment. Even the other initiates know I'm not going anywhere."_

" _Why?"_

" _You're going to have to be more specific than that."_

" _Why do you think you'd make a terrible Jedi?"_

" _Well, I..." The girl cut off, a shiver of irritation rippling through her. "Isn't that bloody obvious?"_

" _I don't see that it is."_

" _Do you really think that, or are you messing with me on purpose?"_

" _Are those mutually exclusive?"_

" _You're bloody irritating, you know that?"_

_Kreia smiled. "You're not the first to say so. I am curious, though. What is it that makes you think you'd make a terrible Jedi?"_

" _Well, I just..." Lesami trailed off, shifting in her seat a little, her mind stuttering. "I'm just, I'm not very much like... Why are you even asking me this anyway, what do you care?"_

" _I'm just curious."_

_The girl forced out a frustrated scoff. But, after a moment muttering under her breath in a language Kreia didn't recognize, she did answer. "I just can't... I've tried to, to take all this... I don't know what the right word is. It just doesn't...click, for me. All this Jedi stuff. I've tried — believe me, I've tried — but none of it, really, sits right, for me. I can't be what they want me to be, I, I just can't. And I can't fake it well enough to slip by, either._

" _I mean, most of the actual...Force, stuff, that I can do. Some of it was hard at first — my swordsmanship still isn't quite up to par — but almost anything to do with the Force directly comes easy to me, it always has. Shite, I've been using it here and there since I was toddler, it's not difficult. I didn't even have to be_ taught  _how to do most sense and control abilities, and the rest is easy too._

" _It's everything else that's the problem. If being a Jedi were just a matter of picking up a bunch of magic powers, there wouldn't even be a question, would there?"_

_No, there wouldn't. Even Kreia, who had very little contact with the other Masters, and even_ less  _with the initiates, knew a fair bit about Lesami Revas. She doubted the girl realized how much she was talked about behind closed doors. There were always the less flattering comments about her temperament and her dedication, of course, but, among her generation, she was almost universally believed to be the single most powerful in the Force._

_An impression Kreia couldn't disagree with. It could be hard to tell for certain at rest — one's ability to manipulate the Force highly depended on focus and clarity of mind — but even just sitting this close to the girl was...well, interesting. It was a feeling on the air, a sharp yet subtle heat, like a warm mist that set her lungs tingling, energy spreading through her veins with each breath, tickling at her skin. She wasn't the only being Kreia had ever met to have such an effect on her environment, but Lesami certainly was special. Not unique, but precious all the same._

_Of course, most powerful Jedi lost this...intensity of presence, as they trained. Jedi were bred to be passive, to fold into their environment, until nearly all semblance of individuality, of personality was washed away into the ether. This girl, however, only seemed to be growing more willful._

_It was...interesting._

" _What does it mean to be a Jedi, then? The part that you feel you're so bad at."_

" _Please don't make me recite the bloody Code again."_

" _Which part do you mean? The Code has been expanded and amended so many times over the millennia, if I were to have you recite the whole thing we might be here for a while. I don't know about you, but that doesn't sound like a compelling use of my time."_

_She didn't make a sound, but Kreia caught the shiver of amusement echoing across the table._

" _But, why not, let's look at the Code for a moment. You're familiar with the Three Pillars, I'm sure."_

_Kreia couldn't be sure, but from the way the girl droned, "Yes," she had the feeling Lesami was rolling her eyes. "Self-discipline, Responsibility, and Service."_

" _Yes. You've had the various strictures forced into your head all too well over the years, I'm sure, we needn't get into those details. But, tell me, in your analysis of the governing ethics of our Order, have you noticed any...say, contradictions?"_

_There was a hard burst of surprise, hitting like a slap to the face. "Well, yes. They're everywhere, if you know how to look."_

" _Like what?"_

_Lesami let out a sigh, a hand coming up to run through her hair. "Okay, the obvious one that always gets me, the call to Deny Arrogance. People fail that one all the time. For one thing, it's mutually exclusive with the call to Deny Curiosity. That one's usually explained as, don't use the Force to get into people's heads and steal their secrets just because. But, if that's what they'd_ wanted  _to say, they could have said something about respecting a being's privacy, or something like that, but that's not what they say. They say,_ Deny Curiosity _. On the surface, it makes sense why they might use those words — curiosity is an emotion of a sort, even a passionate one. There are many people who are driven by curiosity, their desire to learn, to_ know _, directs their entire lives. If we are to reject passion of all sorts, it would make sense to also reject curiosity._

" _But there's an inherent problem with that: in denying curiosity one embraces arrogance. There is an implication that pursuing further understanding of whatever situation you're confronted with is not necessary, that your current understanding of society and how it functions is sufficient. In dictating that Jedi remain passive, not investigate, the Code is implying that a Jedi always knows everything they need to know_ _already_ _. I cannot imagine anything more arrogant than that._

" _And, furthermore, we're told to Honour the Council. The leadership of the Order, they are to be respected and, more to the point, obeyed, at all times, without question. Sure, from the perspective of your average, individual Jedi, this could be considered part of Denying Arrogance. But what about the Masters_ on _the Council? Are_ they  _Denying Arrogance? No, this law is essentially claiming that the High Council is_ infallible!  _Are those twelve Masters somehow different than the rest of us, somehow enlightened in a way we simple mortals can't comprehend? The very idea is ridiculous! They're just people, like everyone else!_

" _And one of the calls to Service, we are commanded to Defend the Weak. This is at the core of what a Jedi is, you could argue — I've read past Jedi making that very argument over and over, one way or another. But, at the same time, we are told to serve the Republic, and to respect its laws. As though the Republic isn't a fallible institution led by corruptible beings. Okay, I knew these people, growing up — my homeworld's Senator is my...third cousin, or something like that, his daughter and I were often forced together for one reason or another. Oh, not the current Senator, I mean the previous— Whatever, it doesn't matter, I actually know this one too. All the powerful families on Shawken know each other, really, high society works like that on most Republic worlds._

_"Anyway, I'm not saying there aren't_ any  _good people at the top. There_ are _, there's a long tradition of selfless public service in the Republic. But most of them? The Senate is filled with self-interested cronies and corporate sycophants, a corrupt, incestuous cesspool of the wealthy and the privileged, the vast majority care_ nothing  _for the common people. Oh, they toss out enough scraps to keep the machine running, to make sure the plebs are content to remain in their place, but beyond that? No, so long as their own power and their own wealth is maintained, the ruling elite of the Republic, the people who make the actual decisions as to how this galaxy is run, they don't care, they don't care about the common citizenry, not even a little bit. That they_ should  _hardly even occurs to them._

" _Serving the Republic, Honouring its Laws, these are directly opposed to our call to Defend the Weak. It's also arrogant, when you think about it..."_

_Well, that was a rather longer, more impassioned rant than Kreia had expected. Lesami's voice had gotten rather heated by the end — Kreia recognized the way she pulled away as a breathing exercise, the girl belatedly trying to calm herself. Surprising, that she had gotten carried away like that, few initiates could stay here for more than a year or two without having greater self-control imposed on them._

_She knew any other Master would chastise the girl for that display. But Kreia felt herself smiling, her throat tight with ecstatic laughter she forced herself to hold. The girl's righteous frustration had had her burning even brighter, with an intensity that was almost deafening, but that wasn't it, not really. It was something at once far simper and far more significant._

_Lesami_ cared _. How long had it been, since Kreia had spoken with any Jedi who_ actually cared?  _About anything, really — Jedi were told_ not  _to care, that to have any investment in nearly anything at all was an early step on the path to the Dark Side. It made them empty, soulless things, they might as well be droids. It was the issue at the heart of the very faults Lesami had just pointed out. After all, if one didn't_ care _, it was easy to pass off the injustices of the Republic, the hypocrisies and failures of the Order. If one didn't care, it didn't matter, nothing truly mattered._

_It was an empty life, to be a Jedi, almost pathologically nihilist in the denial of any purpose, any meaning. Honestly, she even had trouble understanding it sometimes._

_Finding a Jedi, even one still only an initiate, who still_ cared _, who refused to let herself be made empty... Well, it was refreshing. She'd thought the Order had changed, over these last few decades, that Jedi like herself were increasingly a thing of the past. It was something of a relief, to see the new generation hadn't been entirely brainwashed. Even if it were just a handful, that was still something._

" _I assume you are familiar with the works of Entari Suvash." The girl was Shawkenese, after all, and well-educated, she'd certainly at least heard the name before._

_Lesami twitched. "Ah, yes. And,_ kun si _, by the way, Entari kun si Suvasha. If you use both names, you have to say the whole thing. And you have to put the name of the House in the attributive, when speaking of a person. It's, er, Late Alsakani. It's sounds weird if you don't include it."_

_Perhaps to a native of Shawken — Kreia honestly had trouble keeping straight if she were supposed to be using_ si _, or_ lai _, or however many possibilities there were, she didn't actually know. For that matter, she'd been under the impression only the ancient, vestigial nobility on a tiny handful of worlds still observed the 'proper' form anyway. But that didn't really matter right now. "Have you read_ The Hubris of Dogma _?"_

" _No."_

_Her lips pulling into a smile, Kreia said, "Perhaps you should. It might lend a certain understanding of why I believe you will be, in fact, the_ exact  _sort of Jedi we need. I, for one, will be quite glad to have you. Unless you have any objection, I shall arrange to say as much to the Council as soon as possible."_

_It took a handful of seconds for the girl to put together exactly what Kreia meant by that. Not too surprising — Lesami had, after all, been quite thoroughly convinced no Master would ever take her._

_But then, Kreia was hardly an ordinary Jedi Master._

* * *

"I still think this is a terrible idea."

Cina shot the irritating Jedi a look. She choked back the first rude response that came to mind, then the second, and ultimately ended up not saying anything at all.

They were holed up in one of the kids' hideouts, watching the bank of display screens plastering the walls in a corner of the room. (Mission and Zaalbar really had managed to salvage or steal an impressive wealth of equipment.) A few of them were filled with lines of code, scrolling by far quicker than Cina could read, most of the rest false-colour video feeds, piped in from cameras in the upper city maintained by local law enforcement, a system Mission had apparently cracked when her age had still been in the single digits. One in the middle was in natural colour — but low resolution and distorted, the disorienting, twisted view from a fisheye lens — the feed from a hidden camera Kandosa was wearing, transmitted back to them through his com. Kandosa was approaching the Sith military building even now, the security officers at the towering durasteel entrance hardly even giving him a second look.

While Cina had some incentive to not antagonise Shan more than she had to, Mission didn't have the same inhibition. "Well," she said, her voice sliding into a venomous drawl, "I guess it's lucky you're not the one calling the shots, ain't it?"

Cina sighed. "Could we maybe not get into an argument in the middle of an op?"

"Hey, I'm not the one coming off like—"

Kandosa's voice, hissing slightly with artifacts from Mission's encryption, cut in. " _Ad'ika_ , I'd sooner have you watching the skies for me. We can argue with the Jedi later."

"Yeah, fine, whatever." She said it in a low, mutinous groan, but Mission focused on the flood of data flicking past just the same.

With another glance at Shan, Cina nodded to herself. Kandosa, Mission, and Asyr had everything handled — this was as good a time as any. "Okay, I have to take care of something else. Mission, tell Asyr she's up. Shan," she said, nodding toward the opposite end of the single-room flat, "can I have a minute?"

A reluctant sort of grimace crossed Shan's face, but she nodded. Casting a last furtive, disapproving glance over the bank of displays, she turned smartly around on her heel and stalked away. Trailing behind her, Cina was brought up short when Shan abruptly spun back around. Nearly ran into her, probably would have knocked her right over — there was something stiff and brittle about the Jedi's posture, clearly anxious about something. "If this is to be another smug lecture, I can tell you now I am not in the mood."

Cina couldn't help a little smirk. "That's my line."

That was  _almost_  real heat on that glare — odd, she'd been under the impression Jedi weren't permitted anger.  _There is no emotion_ , and all that.

"Anyway, no, this isn't another  _lecture_. We need to talk about something else."

"Whatever it is, I'm sure it can wait for a moment less—"

"I know what the Order did to my mind."

_That_  shut the Jedi up. Shan cut off instantly, her mouth frozen in mid-syllable. Held preternaturally still, she didn't even seem to be breathing, the little colour she did have in her face slowly draining away.

At least she was taking this bloody seriously. That was almost gratifying, to be honest, even Carth had ceased treating this...issue of hers as the existential crisis it was. (Granted, she tried to ignore it most of the time herself, not the point.) "I know I'm not Cianen Hayal, she probably never existed. I've figured out I was a Jedi. And I'm pretty sure you know  _exactly_ who I used to be."

A crack shot through Shan's statuesque stillness, a narrow frown creasing her brow. She twitched, her mouth working silently for a second, finally finding her voice. "You don't..." She cleared her throat. "How much do you remember?"

Cina shrugged. "Virtually nothing. I know I was born to a wealthy Shawkenese family. I vaguely remember causing a stir one vacation, accidentally threw my cousin across the room. I was...eight or nine at the time, something like that. I have the  _feeling_  I didn't stay very long after that, I was sent away to the Jedi around then, but I don't remember anything about any of it. It's mostly just...impressions, feelings. I don't even know my own name.  _You_  know, though, I'm certain you do."

"There's no way you could possibly know that for certain."

Withholding the urge to roll her eyes, she said, "You're not nearly as subtle as you think you are,  _Master Jedi_. I can tell when someone's afraid of me."

Shan winced, eyes turning from Cina's. She was still another moment, brow heavy, face faintly twitching with some internal argument. "I cannot give you the answers you seek." Cina opened her mouth to argue, but before she could get anything out Shan raised her voice a little, cutting over her. "I  _cannot_. The Masters of the Council on Dantooine have sworn me to secrecy on certain matters. There are things I cannot tell you without their permission."

It took some effort to keep her reaction off her face, enough she probably failed. The Jedi impulse toward secrecy was one anyone who paid attention to galactic affairs at all was well familiar with — having it directed at something that affected her so intimately was... Well, 'irritating' fell short. "That's a crock of shite if I ever heard one."

"I'm not—"

"Oh, I believe you. I just think it's fucking idiotic." Cina pushed out a long sigh, trying to force out as much of the frustration tightening her throat as she could. It didn't work very well, but her voice came out level, at least. "I don't suppose there's anything you  _can_  tell me. For starters, what the fuck are the Jedi doing mucking about with their own people's heads? That's a bit much even for them."

Shan hesitated a long moment, eyes bouncing between Cina and the wall at her side. "It's something of an...experiment."

"An  _experiment?_  Oh, you  _better_  be bloody joking, because if the Jedi rewrote my entire personality as a fucking  _experiment..._ "

"Do let me finish. Not  _that_  kind of experiment." Her eyes falling closed, Shan paused another few seconds, clearly picking over her words. Cina bit her lip to stop herself from saying anything, trying to force back the fury clawing at her chest.

(It was  _sort_  of working — she hadn't punched Shan in the face yet, she thought she was demonstrating an impressive degree of self-control here.)

"It is a common belief among the Jedi," Shan started, slowly, cautiously, her eyes still shut, "that once a person has touched the Dark Side there is no turning back from it. That it... It's a corruptive influence, that once one has surrendered to it it will haunt them forever. Over the millennia, there have been dozens of attempts to redeem fallen Jedi, most of which ended in tragic failure. Even the best cases were...mixed.

"You presented a unique opportunity." Shan took a long, slow breath, shivering a little through the exhale. "You  _were_  a Jedi, once. But, years ago now, you left the Order, and ultimately joined the Sith."

Cina felt a single eyebrow start wandering up her forehead.

"During a battle against Republic forces, you were injured, by friendly fire. Severely injured. You were taken into Jedi custody, but it was...undetermined, whether you would ever wake up. There was some significant brain damage, we... The Council elected to... Who you had been was lost anyway, it was believed. Perhaps, if a new identity was constructed from scratch, and implanted into your ruined mind, you would wake up, you would have a second chance. And it worked, obviously."

Pretty story, that. Too bad Shan was lying.

Well, to be entirely fair to the prissy chit, it was  _possible_  she was telling what she believed to be the truth — or at least a heavily redacted version of the truth, with the classified bits edited out. Cina couldn't tell one way or the other. It was very clear Shan was dissembling, she was having trouble even getting a full sentence out, but that  _could_  be because she was simply trying to explain as much as she could without permission from her damn Council. It was theoretically  _possible_  Shan was being as honest as she could possibly be in the situation.

Personally, Cina doubted it, but she would have to work with this woman, at least through the next few days. She was willing to give her as much of the benefit of the doubt as she reasonably could for the time being.

But the story was, quite simply, nonsense. That wasn't how brain damage worked. If a person was brain dead,  _they were brain dead_  — the Force might be magic, but she was  _pretty sure_ circumventing catastrophic, irreversible neural death by, just...rearranging them, no, that wasn't a thing. Even as far as medical developments in other fields had gotten in recent centuries, playing with a being's brain was still a very complicated proposition. Peripheral neural regeneration was a problem that had been solved millennia ago — pre-spaceflight, in fact — but the structure of the central nervous system was just too finely detailed to reproduce effectively.

Any attempt was as likely to result in an irreversible coma as just leaving the person alone. Best case scenario, the subject  _would_  wake up, but would have been made  _completely insane_. And even pulling it off  _that_  well would be a bloody miracle.

Perhaps the Jedi could lean on the Force to cheat, but Cina thought that was giving them a  _bit_  too much credit. Jedi were magic, not gods.

Not to mention, there were quite obvious holes in the story. If she'd had brain damage severe enough who she'd been was completely irrecoverable, why did she suddenly remember that time she'd magically thrown Desa across the library? Okay, fine, she'd be willing to allow the possibility of an explicit memory here or there surviving, but there was something far more damning: her  _implicit_  memory.

Most people who hadn't studied the subject made the mistake of assuming all memory was, just, recollection of events in a person's own life, but it was far more complex than that. A person's skills, knowledge or processes they'd practised to proficiency, those were encoded in the brain in virtually the same way experiential memories were. If brain damage is severe enough to significantly disrupt a person's memory of their own life, it  _also_  hits their implicit memory. Patients forget individual words or even entire languages, how to use the most basic technology, even things like how to walk or dress themselves. Rehabilitation from severe head injuries focuses on relearning whatever fundamental life skills have been lost, that's why they usually have such long recovery windows.

But, as far as she could tell, her implicit memory was  _still intact_. The languages she'd never studied, how to use a blaster, history and xenosociology she couldn't remember learning, her unsettling knowledge of organised crime. Granted, she often didn't know she knew these things, but that wasn't counter-evidence. In fact, she felt it might be  _proof_  the story was false — there was no reason for Cianen Hayal to know these things, so she didn't know she knew them; but, once some external prompting cued this hidden knowledge, it was recovered in its entirety. That meant the knowledge was  _still there_ , the ability to access it was simply repressed.

That implied her old neural structure — which, fundamentally,  _was_  the person she'd once been —  _was still there_.

If she'd still needed  _more_  proof, there were the...un-Cianen feelings and opinions she had sometimes. There was this little thing called neuroplasticity — the critical consequence of the concept was that a person's brain, at a physical, microscopic level, was gradually shaped by their experiences. A person's cognitive biases and emotional prejudices were hardwired, increasingly as they were relied upon. It wasn't a matter of choice, or self-control, or whatever, one's personality was physically determined by the structure of their brain, which was itself shaped by the experiences that personality led to, in a self-reinforcing cycle that couldn't truly be escaped.

If she  _had_  had such catastrophic brain damage, if  _everything_  she'd been had been destroyed, that underlying structure would have been destroyed too, everything would have had to have been rebuilt from the ground up. But, she had feelings that didn't match Cianen Hayal's experiences. The intense, near overwhelming hatred for slavery. The...she didn't know what to call it, the peculiar combination of depression and affection Mission's eccentric, sunny cheerfulness often struck her with. That depression itself, a mind-numbing despair that crept up on her when she least expected it, in those quiet moments she had too much time to think. Her disdain for the Republic and the Jedi — sure, Cianen had always been rather political, but something about it was just... _wrong_ , it felt too... It was almost personal, in a way, less a removed frustration with their shortcomings and their corruption, as she should expect, and more an immediate sense of...of disillusionment, of  _betrayal_...

She took herself aback, sometimes, with the strength of feelings she didn't expect to have. It was rather disorienting.

(Though, her opinions on the Republic and the Jedi suddenly made a  _lot_  of sense. A certain famous Jedi had been Shawkenese nobility, and they were about the same age — it was quite possible she and Revan had known each other as children, and even  _more_  likely their time at the Temple mostly overlapped. Cina would bet her mysterious fortune that she'd been one of the original Revanchists. That bitterness made perfect sense in context.)

Not to mention, she didn't at all  _act_  like Cianen Hayal, what she remembered of herself. For all that she did have a bit of a mouth about her — she was somewhat infamous among the grad students attached to her department for her acerbic, sarcastic lectures — she'd always been rather passive when it came to actually  _doing_  things. She meant, yes, other people's idiocy would often annoy her, and she wasn't shy about saying so, but it never really occurred to her to take the initiative to remedy their stupid mistakes. She'd never had much interest in doing anything more than puttering about campus, researching and writing and torturing poor, defenceless undergrads. But...

Well, just look at everything she'd done since arriving on Taris. Shan had clearly been horrified Cina had taken charge of their little band of misfits — probably worried she was slowly reverting to her old self, come to think of it. Because it was  _very much_  out of character for Cianen, looking back part of her was shocked she'd had the stones to pull off half the shite she'd done. But at the time, it'd...

Dragging Carth around by the nose, charging straight into blasterfire like a crazy person, picking up local strays, plotting to spark a gang war or break a blockade, barking out orders in the middle of a battle even as she formulated alterations to the strategy on the fly, it all... It, it felt  _natural_ , like...like she'd been doing this forever, this sort of insanity was just  _what she did_.

The person she'd once been was  _still in here_. She'd just been suffocated under Cianen Hayal, a false personality imposed on her against her will.

By the Jedi.

The Jedi had suppressed everything she had been and replaced it with an identity that suited their needs.

_Knowingly_.

There was no other explanation. The Jedi had to know neurology better than she did — they did like to claim they were primarily scholars, after all, and it wasn't exactly a subject she'd studied very thoroughly. (She didn't think she had, anyway.) And they had an advantage, they could  _read minds_ , they would be able to  _confirm for a fact_  there was still someone in here.

Yet they'd forced Cianen Hayal on her anyway.

Those long interviews on Coruscant hadn't been to vet her for an archaeological project they were overseeing. No, they'd been confirming their brainwashing had stuck.

That was assuming there even  _was_  an archaeological project they wanted her for — she'd noticed way back on the  _Spire_ , before she'd even begun to suspect her own memories were fictional, that there were massive holes in the logic of their story. Chances were that had been a front to deflect her suspicions.

Dantooine, Shan had said it was the Council  _on Dantooine_  that had sworn her to secrecy. It'd happened there, she knew it — fuck, it was all too likely certain Jedi on the Council were the  _very same people_  who had mind-raped the person she'd once been into oblivion!

Whatever they wanted her for, whatever plans they'd had in mind when they'd attempted to brainwash her, it was to start on Dantooine.

_That's_  why they wanted her on Dantooine.  _That's_  why they'd wanted a sizable Jedi escort to get her there — Shan was terrified of her, Cina must have been quite impressive in her time.  _That's_  why Shan was still insisting, despite how completely insane everything had gotten, that they head straight there once they were offworld.

The Jedi altered her with a purpose. And whatever it was, it would start on Dantooine.

"Hayal? Are you..."

Cina blinked, focused on Shan again. Shan looked...not scared, no, that word was a little too strong. Wary? Staring at Cina, a shade of anxiety behind her eyes, as though waiting for Cina to explode on her, waiting for...well, something to happen. Cina must have gone a bit blank for a moment, too focused on her own thoughts to pay proper attention to the outside world.

Or, perhaps, Shan was using that Jedi mind-reading of hers, and knew exactly what Cina was thinking. Though, if she were, she'd think Shan should look rather more worried than she did. She was still processing the revelation she'd just gotten, but once the shock wore off, well...

She  _did_  need to go to Dantooine. But not for the same reasons  _Shan_  needed her to. After all, the Jedi might not be  _explicitly_  threatening her, but it would be wise to figure out what they wanted at the very least.

Cina had the very clear feeling that trusting the Jedi ever again would be complete lunacy.

"I'm fine. I just..." Cina trailed off, mulled over what exactly she should say for a moment. Jedi did have that mind-reading thing of theirs, but even when they weren't messing with people's heads actively, it was widely believed that they could evaluate a person's sincerity passively. (That was just folklore, but it didn't  _feel_  wrong, which meant her unconscious Jedi instincts were probably on board with that one.) So, it would be a bad idea to  _lie_ , but... "It's... This is a lot to take in, all at once. I just need a few moments to process it, is all."

Shan's face softened, any obvious trace of suspicion draining away. "I understand. I shall leave you to your thoughts, if that's what you wish." With a hint of disdain, "I should check back in, make sure everything is going according to plan."

Cina nodded. "If Kandosa gets made, call me over. I have a couple contingencies."

"I will." Shan said it rather reluctantly — again, it was quite obvious any sign of Cina's previous personality resurfacing made her  _extremely_  uneasy. But at least she seemed to understand she needed Cina for the moment. That was something. As the Jedi glided her way back across the room, Cina stared at her back, brow twitching with a half-hidden frown.

Honestly, she hadn't thought that conversation would make everything  _more_  complicated. She couldn't catch a fucking break these days.

* * *

"Status."

The synthesized voice sent a chill running up Saul's spine, his posture unconsciously stiffening, enough that one spot above his hip twinged. Automatically, he slid into the mental exercise he'd been taught long ago — thoughts sharpened on a razor focus, no tangents allowed, no extraneous observations or even feeling at all, giving nothing away. He turned away from the curve of the Taris skyline over his head, heels of his boots clicking together, precise and formal. "There are no further updates, my lord. We have heard whisperings that Shan may have been spotted deep in the lower city, but there's been no independent confirmation yet, and we have no leads on her whereabouts."

Alek didn't respond at first, hardly even seemed to blink. Which was, as usual, subtly unnerving. Alek had always been an imposing man, tall and broad-shouldered, rather more bulky than the average Jedi, his focus on the more athletic side of their Order's skills obvious in limbs and chest. He'd only gotten more intimidating over the years, skin turning a sickly white, hairless pate set to an almost eerie glow under the stark white lights of the bridge, the harsh metal that had replaced his jaw cold and gleaming. Just, standing there, staring, still and imposing.

Saul tried not to think about the times he'd seen Alek kill people with a wave of his hand. Letting one's thoughts wander around the more unstable Jedi was generally inadvisable.

Finally, he spoke. It was always vaguely unsettling, his false voice requiring no movement from his half-ruined face, like a statue inexplicably talking at him. "Is that all you have to report?" It could be hard to tell, the synthesizer not quite up to properly emulating human expression, but Saul thought he  _might_  have heard a suggestive note.

Trying to ignore his throat slowly going dry, he said, shaking his head slightly, "No, my lord, nothing relevant occurs to me."

"Nothing. Relevant." The movement slow, with conscious weight to it — Alek always had been a melodramatic bastard, hadn't he — he reached into a pocket in those absurdly overdone black and red Sith robes of his, pulled out a datapad. Proffering it, in a low, flat whisper, "Does this seem relevant to you?"

A single glance at the image on-screen and Saul's heart quite nearly jumped out of his chest.  _Lesami_. Looking absurdly like a down-on-her-luck spacer, in worn clothes of cheap synthetic fabrics, hardly even looked like her, save for the way she held herself, sauntering through the bank like she owned the place. Not just  _a_  image of Lesami, but  _the_  image, the same one Saul had seen before, the one Kanyr had showed him, the angle was the same and—

With a sudden, sharp pain at his temple, the train of thought cut off, Saul wincing before he could stop himself. And Alek was still staring at him, he'd hardly seemed to blink. A sense of dread sinking into his stomach, Saul realized what had just happened.

_He knows_.

"Sergeant." One of the troopers at Alek's back snapped to attention. "Bring Major Kanyr Sheq to me."

Before Saul could think of a thing to say, the small squad had already left, stomping out of the bridge. He turned back to Alek, internally girding himself. "My lord, if anyone is to be punished for this, it is me. Major Sheq simply did as I ordered her to, there is no reason to—"

"I assure you, Admiral, her fate will be left entirely up to you."

Something about the way the Sith Lord said it struck him with a shiver of unease.

"Notify the fleet to prepare firing solutions."

Saul blinked. "Of course, my lord. The target?"

"Taris."

On instinct, following the rhythm of the conversation, Saul's mouth had already been open when the implication hit. It dropped silently closed again.

He couldn't have heard that right. Saying simply Taris, instead of  _on_  Taris, implied he meant to conduct an indiscriminate orbital bombardment. But, but there was no  _reason_  to do that! Passing over the horrifying scale of the atrocity he was suggesting they commit —  _tens of billions_  of people lived down there — the locals had been nothing but accommodating since they'd arrived. The gangs that plagued the lower city had been a nuisance, of course, but the legitimate government had done everything requested of them to the best of their abilities. This wasn't an occupied Republic world, Taris was a  _full voting member_  of the Empire, they couldn't—

"Your Excellency, I beg you to reconsider." It made him feel a little ill using that address — Alek might have forced himself into Lesami's place, but the title had to be confirmed by a full vote of the Assembly, he hadn't bothered — but he did it anyway, hoping it might make Alek more likely to listen. "Neither the planetary administration nor the people of Taris have done anything to provoke such an extreme response."

"Their actions are irrelevant. They  _cannot_  escape, either of them. I will have the entire city and everyone in it burned to ash before I risk those two be set loose into the galaxy once again."

"Consider the consequences, Your Excellency, the precedent. Taris is an Imperial world, a full member with a voting delegation to the Assembly. If we do this to one of our own—"

"—the rest will get the message, I'm sure."

Saul's mouth worked in silence for the moment, struck numb by idiotic short-sightedness. "Your Excellency, I—"

"Do you intend to fool me, calling me that?" Alek's eyes had turned sharper, more dangerous, hot with a threat of violence that had Saul choking on his own words. "I'm not so simple as you believe me to be, Admiral. You may be looking at me as you say those words, but it is  _her_  I see in your heart."

There was nothing Saul could say to that. It was true: he wasn't Alek's man, never had been. So long as his mind was his own he never would be.

"We'll have to see about that, won't we?"

Despite the potentially mortal danger he knew he was in, Saul felt his own eyes narrow into a glare. "Stop reading my mind."

His face softening slightly, as though with amusement, Alek said, "Prove I can trust you, and maybe I will." Saul didn't like the way he said  _that_  much either.

He wouldn't be able to convince Alek to spare Taris, he knew that much already — in any other situation, Alek  _might_  listen to reason, but with Lesami down there, no, Alek  _couldn't_  let her get away, there was nothing he could do. But, maybe... "Give me a day, my lord. We have thousands of men on the surface, many assigned to this very ship. We need time to recall them."

"No."

"The hit to morale alone would—"

"I want this pathetic excuse for a planet wiped off the face of the galaxy, Admiral. I will accept no delays or half-measures. If you refuse to cooperate, I'll be forced to find someone who will. But—" Just then the squad from before returned, stepping through the doors into the bridge, Kanyr bracketed in the middle, looking rather nervous (as she should). "—perhaps I can be convinced to permit a delay of an hour."

"That is not nearly enough time, my lord. At least twelve hours would—"

" _One_. Hour. Admiral." Alek's eyes burned, almost seeming to glow with a harsh internal light, stealing Saul's words from his tongue. "And I require something in return."

The squad approached, Kanyr was forced to her knees at Alek's feet. He spared her a quick glance, one side of his hairless brow twitching with restrained rage. He held one hand out to the sergeant; the man wordlessly drew his sidearm, handed over the blaster.

Alek, just as silently, offered it to Saul in turn.

* * *

Everything ended up going to shite pretty much instantly. Though, that wasn't entirely unexpected — Cina had made sure they were all well armed for a reason.

Davik Kang had put himself up in a luxury apartment building not far from the capitol district. They'd been apartments once, in any case, but he'd since transformed the top twenty levels or so into his own personal palace. Supposedly, the place had all kinds of over-the-top defenses, from energy shields to surface-to-air weaponry.

At least they didn't have to worry about the approach: Kandosa got on the com to announce he was coming in with some friends, they made it to the fifth floor landing pad without issues. The security staff gave them a few weird looks at the size of their group, enough they'd had to come in on three separate aircraft.

(It wasn't nearly as comfortable of a ride as the proper airspeeder, but she'd decided to cling on behind Asyr on the bike anyway — she  _really_  didn't want to be cooped up with Shan in an enclosed space if she could avoid it. Mission had flown with Kandosa, probably for the same reason.)

They didn't even make it all the way through security before the subtle option went up in flames. Most of their little party had been processed — the grunts had tried to insist they hand over their weapons, a glare from Kandosa put a stop to that — but it hung up when they got to Mission. These blokes obviously knew a slicer when they saw one, and they wanted her to hand over all her equipment before letting her inside. That didn't go over well.

One of the thugs started reaching to restrain her, but his hands had barely made it halfway when Kandosa, smoothly and without a blink, put a shot in his back. In a handful of seconds, Cina, Kandosa, and Carth had taken out all the guards, Asyr and Shan stunning the handful of techs, most down before they'd even fired off a shot. Luckily, the blast doors hadn't been slammed shut on them — Shan had put the bloke in the sealed-off control room to sleep somehow, Cina had seen him drop unconscious under the window.

Swapping out the power cell in his rifle, with the sort of absent ease only acquired through endless repetition, Kandosa sneered down at one of the steaming corpses. "Consider this my resignation."

Cina's hand snapped up over her mouth, smothering her laughter a second too late.

Though, that scandalised disapproval on Shan's face was sort of hilarious, maybe she shouldn't have bothered.

The halls just inside were empty, and unexpectedly ascetic, plain tannish metal — she'd never met him, but by what she'd heard Cina had pegged Kang as the hedonistic type. Kandosa had explained this level was mostly intended for certain favored underlings, the top four levels would be far more in line with her expectations, reserved for Kang and his... Well, his "women" was how Kandosa had put it, but Cina would bet "slaves" was a more accurate word.

For a mad few seconds, as they stormed down the halls, Cina almost insisted they rescue them all. But they didn't have the time to track them down, Kang could call in reinforcements or just fly off on the very ship they were trying to steal. So she swallowed back her rage, trying to ignore how much it tasted like self-hatred.

After a few turns through the plain halls, they peeled back into an open atrium of some kind, occupied with a few chairs here and there, an occasional low planter, a bank of lifts set into the far wall. And, of course, a couple dozen Exchange thugs. "Shan, cover Mission." The first volley dropped several of them, but the air was soon alight with screaming plasma, sending everyone diving for cover.

This fight didn't end up lasting very long either. Apparently, the first batch at the door hadn't had enough time to raise the alarm, they'd managed to get the drop on them. Not to mention this particular group seemed a little green: they were almost visibly panicky, their aim a little too wide for professionals. Careful shots around sparking benches and melting chairs, it only took two minutes or so before they were all dead.

Cina could have done without the concussion grenade Kandosa had tossed into the middle of the pack, though — just the noise of the blasters was bad enough, setting  _that_  off indoors gave her a bloody horrendous headache. He just grinned back at her chastising glare.

That man  _did_  like explosions.

At some point during their staring contest, Mission had ended up at the control panel for the lifts. "Shit, they locked them down." The girl's hands were a little shaky, poking around, but she was holding together, at least. "I could maybe crack it, but I'd need to reroute—"

"Where's the lock?"

Mission jumped, blinked up at her for a second. "Ah...this model?" She stared at the door of the nearest lift, running a hand over the ceramic surface, gave it a hard tap in the middle. "Right here. It's a maglock, but it'll have a deadswitch, we'll have to—"

Rotating her rifle out of the way, Cina tugged open the long pouch belted into her waist. She pulled out the dead Jedi's lightsaber, the blue blade snapping into life with the softest touch of her thumb, the air heavy with a deep hum as she rotated the hilt around in her hand with a flourish. Bracing the pommel against her other hand, she drove the tip into the center of the door, burning easily through the weak point at the seam. Sparks flung from the glowing, superheated metal pinching at her skin, she dragged the blade a few inches down, then a bit further up, the blade catching here and there as it met the inner workings of the lock. Finally she felt it give way, shut the lightsaber off and returned it to its pouch. It took a moment to wedge her fingers into the seam, but once she had a good grip the doors opened easily, exposing the smooth, dark, empty depths of the lift shaft. "We climb. Top floor."

"Ah," Mission started, shaky with nerves, "I don't know about you guys, but I don't think I can..."

"Zaalbar."

"What do you— Oh, okay, good idea." The two of them appeared at Cina's shoulder a moment later, Mission clinging to Zaalbar's back, small enough she was almost entirely hidden in his shaggy fur. Zaalbar leapt into the shaft to meet the wall at the opposite side, claws throwing sparks for a second before they caught. He soon climbed out of sight, scaling the smooth metal with unnerving ease.

"Damn. Remind me to not piss him off." Asyr, who'd stepped up to her side at some point, nodded into the shaft. "You'll need to cut it open at the top too. There should be a ladder next to the door."

"Right." That was going to be a bloody pain — there wasn't really enough of a ledge on the other side of these doors to stand on. Not to mention there'd probably be more people with guns up there, just waiting to shoot her the instant she had the doors open. Oh well, figure that out when she got there. Fingers hooked around the frame, she leaned out into the shaft, very consciously not looking down. There was a ladder, right next to the doors on the left, close enough it was an easy step out onto the rungs.

Cina had barely climbed five feet when she heard the last person she wanted to deal with right now calling up from just beneath her, voice gone a little snappish. "You didn't tell me you had a lightsaber."

"I didn't see how it was your business."

Shan let out a huff, low enough Cina might not have heard it without the lift shaft carrying it up to her. "I am not experienced in the use of blasters. I would be far more useful in this endeavor with a familiar weapon in hand."

"That sounds like your problem." Honestly, with surprise on their side, they had more than enough firepower to deal with these morons. They didn't need the extra advantage.

"It is quite unreasonable to allow your personal dislike of me to interfere with—"

"Annas put it in my hand, Shan, told me to keep it with her dying breath. It's mine. Piss off."

That, at least, got Shan to shut the hell up. Too bad it'd probably only work this once.

(" _Go back_ ," Annas had said, " _you must, everything, everything dep—"_  Go back where? Everything depends on what?)

The rest of the climb passed in a strange combination of silence and echoing noise. Security having managed to react in time to get a lockdown in place, the inner workings of the lift had gone completely inert, the subtle hums and sharp clicking one would expect entirely absent. (Not that Cina had realised she knew what the inside of a lift shaft should sound like.) But the walls were solid enough, the double-wide shaft tall enough, every little noise bounced around, lingering far longer in the air than they should. The pattering of their feet and hands on the rungs, the clinking of blasters and packs against their belts, the thin passing of their breath, they all felt somehow larger, amplified, heard once before returning a couple seconds later, thinner and softer, the sounds thick around her pressing inward, her skin tingling with in inexplicable sense of unease, her stomach rising into her throat.

And Zaalbar's claws screeching against the metal of the shaft, echoing back and forth over and over, and over and over and  _over_ , was really starting to give her a headache. A headache focused toward the left side of her head, just over her ear, dull and hot.

"— _stand listening to that noise. It's bloody painful."_

" _This isn't the best I've heard, but it's not bad. Just not comfortable to human ears — I can transform it down a bit if you want to hear what it sounds like to us."_

" _I think I'll take a pass on that, thanks. Even while it's drilling holes in my skull, I can still tell I'd find it repetitive and boring."_

" _This coming from the woman who listens to terrible synth dance music from the grimmiest corners of Hutt space."_

" _Hey, there are all kinds of things in Hutt space that are just fascinating, xenosocio—"_

"Hayal? Hayal, what's wrong?"

The memory faded away, the lift shaft around her slipping fitfully back into place. Cina had barely managed to cling to the ladder while her head had been drifting, her hands all too loose and shaky, her knees just steady enough to hold her weight. She leaned forward a bit, bringing her forehead to rest against one of the rungs, the cool metal sharp against the muggy heat clinging to her skin. Actually, she was sweating rather a lot all of a sudden, but not from exertion — she hadn't really thought of it before, but she was  _far_  more fit than Cianen Hayal should be. No, this was something else, a heat flushed through her, sickening and unsettling, her stomach roiling up her throat, her fingers twitching, skin writhing. She took a few long, unsteady breaths, trying to force back the remains of the odd episode that had almost just gotten her killed.

She remembered another name, from her past. Not her own, of course, but another Jedi she'd known from her youth, a Verpine named Ac̳ika. Cianen had even heard of Ac̳ika, he'd been one of the original Revanchists. (Well, he or she, Verpine were a single-sex species, they weren't usually particular about the pronouns people used to refer to them in Basic.) She knew — vaguely, like something she'd read once long ago — that she'd learned Ac̳ika's native language (so well as humans could pronounce it) when they'd still been rather young, one of her earlier adventures in learning exotic tongues. So, of course, she'd become one of his favourite people to talk to, since she was essentially the only one among their age group who could even pronounce his name (mostly) correctly, could actually hold a conversation without the need of translation tech, Verpine being physically incapable of speaking Basic and most others unwilling to put in the effort to understand them.

They'd apparently had innumerable inane arguments about all kinds of insignificant things on their downtime, during the war with the Mandalorians. Not malicious arguments, no, just...friends bickering.

He'd been one of the original Revanchists to die in the war, she knew.

Cina could  _barely_  even remember Ac̳ika, but the thought still had that dreadful black pit opening up beneath her again, a seductive whisper at the back of her thoughts enticing her to just...

A short moment of concentration, focusing only on the passing of air in and out of her lungs, again, again, and the feverish sickness slowly loosened its hold on her, that inexplicable well of despair following her around pushed back for now. Finally in control of herself again, Cina muttered, "Sorry." Her echoing voice sounded thin, scratchy. "Brain moment." Thankfully, nobody seemed to feel the need to comment on that. She started climbing again, the first few rungs coming awkwardly, precariously teetering, but the repetitive moments gradually smoothed out, and she was (mostly) fine again.

She very studiously ignored best she could the screeching echoes battering her head.

In time they came to the top of the shaft, Cina placing herself just next to the sealed door. And she frowned, biting at the curses on her tongue — the lip on this side of the door was  _far_ too narrow, just a couple millimeters, she couldn't possibly stand on that to cut the blasted thing open. They could maybe rig up a harness with a little effort, between herself and Kandosa she was sure they had the necessary supplies, but it would take a bit of finagling, they didn't have that much time. Maybe she could just cut straight through— No, she could pass the lightsaber to Zaalbar, and  _he_  could carve through the wall, since he could manage a much firmer hold than she could, but that would probably require getting Mission off him, which could be tricky. Maybe they could—

"Cina." She started, glancing down between herself and the wall — she wasn't sure she'd ever heard Shan use the nickname Mission had given her (which she'd since adopted entirely, calling herself by a name she knew to be fake felt peculiar), but that had  _definitely_  been the prissy little Jedi's voice. Shan was staring up at her, looking more...open, perhaps was the word, more open than she had since they'd met, her gaze steady and uncharacteristically frank. "I can do it."

Somehow, she held in an exasperated sigh. Bloody Jedi and their bloody magic powers. "You might as well, I can't think of a better way out of here."

Shan nodded. Before Cina could even reach for the thing, the younger woman tensed, just for the shortest instant, before flinging herself into the air. She rose faster and further than a human should possibly be able to manage from a full stop, meeting the opposite wall of the shaft inches under the bottoms of Zaalbar's feet, planted for a blink before pushing off again, coming to rest against the door, her feet slipping down to find the ledge.

It was rather odd to look at, actually. Only the  _very_  tips of Shan's boots were on the ledge, she shouldn't be able to support herself there — not to mention, standing the way she was, her centre of gravity was far out over the shaft, she  _should_  just topple right off.

But, well, bloody Jedi and their bloody magic powers.

Cina pulled out her borrowed lightsaber, flicked it on, the shaft suddenly cast in soft blue light and harsh shadow. Measuring the dimensions of the door with her eyes, she reached over and carefully marked the frame at the height she was  _almost_  certain the lock should be. Switching it off again, she flipped it around in her hand, held it out toward Shan. "That's about the spot you want."

Somewhat to her surprise, Shan accepted the lightsaber with an oddly solemn nod. That was...peculiar. Did Shan suddenly not hate her anymore? Weird and random, but convenient, she guessed.

Watching Shan drive the glowing blade into the seam, impossibly balanced on thin air, Cina found herself distracted by a comparatively minor detail: her grip on the handle. Reversed in her off hand, her primary hand pushing against the pommel, turned to lock about the base of her thumb, to hold herself from slipping. It was exactly what Cina had done, unthinkingly, opening the previous one. Really, she shouldn't be surprised — she couldn't remember it, but they  _had_  been trained by the same people.

It was still very strange, the thought that she'd been a Jedi. The few Jedi she'd met had been... Well, she didn't really seem much like a Jedi, did she? It didn't feel quite real, somehow.

Finally Shan cut through, the doors snapping away into the walls on either side with a dismissive wave of her fingers. And the air was immediately filled with blasterfire. Zaalbar loosened his grip on the wall, sliding down out of the way with a bone shivering scream of protesting metal, but only a tiny percentage of the plasma thrown at Shan actually got past her. She'd taken a single step out onto solid ground, planted there as firm and unbending as stone, lightsaber moving so quickly it formed an arc of static blue light in front of her, as impenetrable as a ray shield.

If watching her practically float on the air had been peculiar, watching this was downright eerie. It was, quite simply,  _impossible_  for the human body to move that bloody fast. It was hard to convince her brain it was happening at all, honestly, some instinctive part of her dismissing it, that  _had_  to be a solid energy shield around her, her arms weren't  _actually_  moving that fast, see how they stopped here and here, she was imagining it. (She was pretty sure she was imagining Shan's arms stopping anywhere at all, with how thick the blasterfire was coming down she'd be dead if she lingered for an instant.)

It  _was_  an impressive display, but Shan wouldn't be able to keep it up forever. Over her shoulder, Cina called, "Kandosa, plasma grenades." It took a couple short moments for Kandosa to pass one of his belts of grenades up to Asyr, and then for Asyr to pass it up to Cina. A quick glance at the gleaming metal orbs fixed to the strip of leather confirmed Cina knew how this particular model worked (inexplicably, but that was normal these days). "Shan, coming through on your left." The Jedi didn't acknowledge her directly, but she did drift a bit to the right, in awkward shuffling steps, leaving a narrow gap between metal and lightsaber.

It wasn't quite enough for her to fit through, but she'd just have to trust Shan to not cut her in half.

Cina climbed up a few more rungs, paused a moment to take a last, heavy breath. Then she threw herself to the side, out into empty air, but just for a second, the lip of the frame above the lift doors came upon her quickly, she grabbed at it as it went by, her momentum brought her swinging forward, she let go, and she was falling feet-first. Her arse hit the floor about even with Shan's feet, and the tile was slick enough she kept sliding, letting herself fall backward as she went, the heavy thrum of the lightsaber as it passed over her head who knew how many times a second hardly audible over the high screaming from the constant deluge of blasterfire. Cina planted a foot, turned, rolled, in a second slamming into hard ceramic. Good, there  _was_  another long, low planter here — she'd been assuming the floor plan would be more or less the same between levels, the gamble had paid off with her not dying immediately.

A quick peek over the edge, glancing around the room for two or three seconds before fire started tracking toward her, ducked back down again. There were a whole bloody  _lot_  of them, but the room wasn't big enough for them to spread out and have enough cover, gathered in clumps partially behind pillars, furniture here and there. Which left no holes in the onslaught, stopping to reload in turns, but it also made them vulnerable. Cina unclipped four of the grenades, pinched off the triggers one by one. She didn't straighten to look, awkwardly tossing the things from flat on her back, aiming by memory.

At the least these plasma grenades, even outnumbering the single concussion one Kandosa had used a few minutes ago, were far quieter. Instead of a sharp, deafening boom, the sound contained by the walls making her skull rattle, there was a quick succession of heavy  _whoompfs_ , followed with a thick roar of flame. The agonised keening that followed the initial blast was far louder than the explosions themselves.

Swinging her rifle back around, Cina propped herself up against the planter, peeking over. Her aim had been good, and many of the Exchange men hadn't had time enough to get out of the blast radii — where the clumps of men had once stood were now corpses torn to pieces and scorched a glassy black, those unlucky few not close enough to be killed instantly touched with oily, crawling green and red fire, slapping helplessly at it as it climbed, screaming and flailing. Cina put them out of their misery first, executing the ones she had a good angle on in rapid succession.

(Largely, if she were being completely honest with herself, because their screams were distracting.)

There were perhaps only a dozen who had survived the grenade volley intact. That might  _seem_  like a lot — Cina and her team were still outnumbered, and she and Shan were even the only ones in the fight — but they'd been forced out of cover, the atrium might as well be a shooting gallery. Not to mention, the men were making a serious tactical error: they were still focusing on Shan.

That did make a kind of sense, to be fair, Jedi being famously hard to kill and infamously deadly and all, but in this case it was completely idiotic. Cina's grenades had cut their numbers down enough that Shan had the space to aim properly. The bolts that shot by over Cina's head immediately shot back the other direction, right where they'd come from. Her aim wasn't perfect — most of them splashed against floor and walls near the idiots, only finding a couple of them — but the turnabout was enough to make the already panicky men hesitate a little.

Which made them easy pickings for Cina. She managed to down another seven of them with quick shots to the chest before the survivors even seemed to remember she was there. Finally finding their way back to cover, their return fire finally started to track toward her, a couple shots even cutting into the planter, chips of scorching hot ceramic pelting her face and hands. Cina ducked down again, a second before a pair of shots burned through the air where her head had been just before.

But, as tended to happen in these sorts of situations, their attention turning to Cina gave Shan an opportunity to move. By the time Cina felt it as safe to look up again, Shan was standing in the middle of the room, a freshly dismembered corpse sloughing to the ground at her feet. Cina scanned the room for a short moment, but pushed herself up to her feet — they were all dead.

Not that she was entirely surprised: the atrium looked like a bloody war zone. It had been a rather pretty place before, a wide, open space with walls covered in polished wood panels, the floors gleaming ceramic tile, the high ceiling mostly glass, angled panes casting a web of thin shadows across little trees and bushes and flowers from a dozen worlds, a few pillars here and there carved into twisting, curving patterns. Now the floor was half-hidden with four huge blackened circles, pockmarks here and there from uncountable dozens of blaster hits, many of the plants — and, near the epicenter of the plasma explosions, even the ceramic tile itself — were aflame, the air swiftly filling with smoke turned harsh and metallic with industrial chemicals and blood. It was a horror not even counting the bodies, which were a good few steps more awful. A dozen stitched with oozing blaster burns, a few more sliced into pieces with ruthless Jedi precision, but most consumed by grenade fire, the least damaged wet and bloody, the rest almost looking more like glass sculptures than beings, contorted and torn apart, all fluids boiled away, the remains burned so thoroughly long organic chemical chains had broken apart and reformed, the structure turned reflective, almost seeming to gleam under the increasingly muffled sunlight from above.

A part of her, that small, quiet part that was still Cianen Hayal, was sickened, completely horrified. The larger part of her, though, had absolutely no pity for them. In fact, though it did come with a faint sense of guilt, she was taken with a bloody glee — as far as she was concerned, slavers deserved no better than this. They could all burn.

There was a reason, after all, she'd immediately jumped at Kandosa's idea of stealing Kang's ship. If she had to kill  _someone_  to get off this festering sinkhole of a planet, they might as well be Exchange thugs.

She heard a low whistle, immediately to her right. Kandosa was standing there, taking in the mayhem with wide eyes, a curious sort of stillness about him. Glancing toward her, his eyebrows cocked, he said, "You work fast, don't you?" He almost sounded — dare she say it? — impressed. Which was something, Mandoade war leaders weren't easily impressed as a rule.

Cina smirked back, reflexively matching his Mandoa. "How selfish of me, I'll try to leave a few for you next time."

Shaking his head to himself, Kandosa let out a low guffaw, his face twisted with a crooked smile.

While Cina was distracted, Shan had walked up to her. Something in her bearing feeling almost...formal, overly respectful, she held Annas's lightsaber back out to her, head dipped and shoulders lowered in a shallow bow.

Cina hesitated, for a brief instant. Shan hadn't been lying: she was a  _lot_  more effective with a lightsaber than a blaster. Letting her keep it would make tactical sense. It wasn't like Cina could use it to the full, and it wasn't like it was even  _hers_ , not really. But she... She wasn't sure of the words for it, she felt...

Before the decision had even become fully conscious, Cina reached to take it, instinctively mirroring Shan's little bow. She slipped the thing back into its spot on her belt, patting it once to ensure it was hitched firm.

She couldn't explain exactly what it was. She just felt more comfortable with it. More of her old self must be bubbling to the surface than she'd thought.

All of them finally gathered again, they were just about to set off when Shan stuttered to a halt only a handful of steps after starting up. Cina turned to her, saw her face had gone shockingly pale, mouth dropping open and eyes wide. Her head was turned a bit to the west, staring unfocused out into the distance.

"Shan? What are—" Cina's own voice cut off with a sharp gasp, drawn by the sudden shiver, starting low in her back and running its way up, the back of her neck tingling. Her breath had turned harsh and thin in an instant, her hands shaking hard enough her rifle rattled. "Okay, what the fuck was—"

It struck again, but where the last twinged this one  _burned_. The fire shot up her spine in an instant, forced itself into her head, bursting against the back of her eyes in splashes of bright, sickening colour. The atrium swirled around her, she would have fallen without Zaalbar appearing at her side to prop her up, and her head just got hotter and hotter, that spot over her left ear throbbing, the incomprehensible swirl of foreign colour pushed harder, overwhelming—

— _blared and displays filled with static, the fighter bucked and rolled, she fought to pull it straight again, fought to remain conscious, the tide of terror and agony and_ cold  _washing over her, it almost took her down with her, she didn't need to see the surface of Serocco to know what—_

_She would kill him for this. She_ should  _kill him for this, he'd—_

_It came as an instant flash of agonising heat, just an instant, so short there wasn't even time to be surprised, just fire and pain and fear, then_ nothing _, cold endless_ nothing _, a thousand times, a_ thousand  _thousand—_

_Cina! Focus, Cina!_

— _shook with the percussion of one air burst after another, fire and shrapnel creating a cacophony she couldn't even hear herself think through, where the_ fuck  _was their air support, she—_

— _she felt the ship breaking apart tear through her, the force of fifty thousand voices going silent deafening, hitting hard enough she staggered, hitching against the holoprojector, she thought she might be sick, but she fought it, pretended Saul wasn't watching, focused on the battle out—_

_Yes, focus! Pull yourself away, you can't get—_

— _down at the surface of Telos, the planet marred with innumerable scars black and brown, so large they were visible from space, a sickly, orange cast to the acidified atmosphere, and she tasted lightning on her tongue, she felt thick and heavy with fury warring against despair, this was all_ wrong _, she hadn't—_

— _hit her during dinner, she felt it, she_ knew _, and the others knew, she'd felt them recoil, and she lifted her mug, toasted the Second Fleet, and the jira tasted like blood—_

— _chewed across their position, and she tried not to wince at the chill of death washing past her, cast it aside—_

Something else forced itself along the tide of fire and death, something steadier, something more solid. Something reached out to her, interspersing itself between Cina's own mind and something outside of it. She hadn't been conscious of her mind as a  _thing_ , a discrete object, until something  _was_  inserted between it and something else, and yet when the realisation struck it was natural, she hardly had to wonder about it at all. Somehow, without knowing exactly how she knew, she knew this  _something_  was another mind, forgotten instinct telling her it was human, one she'd—

— _not like this, not like_ this _, she wouldn't allow it to end, not like this—_

—been in contact with before. The tide hadn't retreated entirely, it was still there, the echoing fires of agony and the bone-chilling draw of oblivion filtered through the mind surrounding hers, weaker. The internal echoes, suppressed memory yanked to the surface, those grew quieter as well, fuzzy and indistinct. Her sense of herself faded back, she knew strong, fuzzy hands under her arms were holding her up, two softer hands cupping her cheeks, fingers dug into her hair, much as the familiar mind encircled her own.

Shan's face was inches away, hard, brown eyes staring steadily into hers. "You must hold yourself together for at least a few minutes more. Focus on the moment, Cina, push it all away from you."

Another line of fire raced up her spine, a chill wind from nowhere cutting to the bone, the floor bucking under her feet, but it didn't penetrate as it had before, the shield about her (Shan, that was Shan) keeping away the worst. "The Sith, they're bombarding the city."

"Not yet. But they will."

"How long?"

Something passed across Shan's face, something pained, shamed, just an instant before vanishing again. "Two, three minutes. We have to keep going, Cina. Focus."

Right. She could do that. Cina took a deep breath, and dug in her heels (metaphorically), staring back at Shan, trying to see her, to know nothing else but what was right in front of her, keep out the...

The  _Force_. That's what that had to be. Premonitions of events about to pass, echoing through the fabric of the galaxy and into her.

Despite herself, she couldn't help a brief moment of shock. She'd already known she'd been a Jedi, before, but it was still... It was just surreal, a little.

(And yet, somehow, natural, as though she'd always known she had magic bloody powers.)

Once she'd shook that thought of, she shook it  _all_  off, the world narrowing, slowly, to the here and now. And she saw Shan, and only Shan, but she didn't just  _see_  her. She... It was like she could  _feel_  her, a tactile awareness of the shape of her face, of her body, the heat leaching out into the air, and not just Shan, but Zaalbar behind her, Mission anxiously hovering at her shoulder, Asyr, Carth, and Kandosa a short space away, eyes on the entrances, fitfully fidgeting, and not just them, but all the room, the floor and the plants and the furniture and the corpses, as though it were all pressed against her skin, soft and sharp and cold and hot and—

Cina drew in a shuddering breath, forced a modicum of strength into her quivering knees. Her nerves still burned, her head over her left ear still throbbed, but she could stand on her own at least. As Zaalbar released her, Shan's mind pulled away. The heat flared, she winced at the sharp pain in her head, but the tide of fate and memory was held back, so thin it was as a faint buzzing in her ears.

She nodded. "Right." Her own voice sounded thin, dry. "Let's get out of here." Shrugging her rifle back into place, she turned for the exit heading north, started off.

She tried not to notice how everyone was staring at her.

From there on, the corridors were remarkably empty. Empty by a certain definition, at least — every few metres there were potted plants, some varieties she didn't even recognise, paintings and sculptures made by artists of a dozen varied species. The glitzy halls were so full in places it was almost hard to get through, their party having to turn to squeeze through single file.

It was mostly barren of  _people_ , though. A couple of times, they'd stumble on more Exchange thugs, no more than three at a time. They weren't at all hard to deal with — Cina's unnerving new awareness of her surroundings had her feeling them before she could see them, snapping off shots at their faces even as they came around corners. There were less guards than she would have expected, but perhaps they'd simply thrown most of their people at the defence at the lifts, hadn't had time yet for reinforcements to come in. Whatever the reason, they were hardly slowed at all on the way to the hanger, Cina and Kandosa easily cutting down what pathetic resistance they did run into.

Even if Cina hadn't memorised the floorplan of the place, she still would have recognised the doors into the hanger: they were wider and taller than the others along the hall, expensive, polished wood replaced with reinforced durasteel, treated to resist the wake from space-capable ion engines. (At speeds safe in atmo, anyway, exposed to ion propulsion at full tilt these doors would be incinerated in an instant.) They were, of course, closed, and apparently sealed, since hitting the open key on the control panel didn't do anything. She  _could_  cut through it, but this was some seriously high-quality metal, it'd take far, far longer than the much flimsier elevator doors had.

But the direct approach wasn't always the best one. This sort of problem was exactly what slicers were for. Before Cina had even said anything Mission had sidled up, already prying the panel open with that skinny little vibroblade of hers. The rest of them settled in to wait, Asyr and Carth and Kandosa marking out a weak perimeter — Kandosa, with bull-headed industriousness characteristic of Mandoade, knocked over a nearby sculpture, the closest thing to cover they could expect in the middle of a hallway.

Cina watched Mission work, but she  _really_  didn't have the expertise to know how it was going. She'd spliced herself into the security system easily enough, hooking the thing at the end of the cable dangling from her datapad into the circuits under the panel, seemingly picking a place at random. (At least, it hadn't seemed distinctive to Cina.) The holoprojector Mission wore on her wrist had flickered into life, a three-dimensional shape composed of what looked like lines of code floating in front of her, twisting and turning and peeling away and inverting at gestures of her fingers, when she wasn't manipulating that tapping away at her datapad in an almost constant rhythm.

So  _that's_  what that holoprojector was for. Not that she really had any fucking clue at all what was going on here, but it was clear this was helpful somehow. She'd wondered why the girl carried that around all the time.

There was a single blaster shot, the heavier, lower groan of Kandosa's clunky disruptor. A quick glance up, there was another guard that direction, already slumping to the ground, a significant portion of his head and neck atomised. "How's it look, Mission?"

"The ship is still there, but the bay doors are open." Her voice was higher than usual, stuttering a little, but she was doing an impressive job holding together for her age. (Though age was relative, the lower city likely hadn't allowed Mission much of a childhood.) "Which means Kang's probably on the way to his ship, if he's not there already."

"The lock?"

"Give me a few seconds, sheesh, the security on this isn't anything to—"

Something forced its way into her again, but not the fiery agony of countless beings suffering, the chill of them dying. Instead of running up her spine in a wave it seemed to strike all at once, a peculiar alertness coming alive, a vibrating tension, like glass ringing from an impact, hard enough it hurt—

The lightsaber appeared in her hand, she didn't remember reaching for it, the blade sprang into life. An instant later, blue plasma was struck with orange, roughly two-thirds of the way up the blade, the blaster bolt spanging off to burn into the ceiling. The force of the hit was as a sudden weight settling on her hand, nearly turning her wrist back, but she, somehow, held it perfectly in place. If it had been pushed back, after all, the blade would have sheared right through the back of Mission's head.

That blaster shot, if it hadn't been stopped, would have hit Mission in the back of the head. Cina had stopped it, she hadn't meant to, she'd hardly even been aware of—

Mission should be dead right now.

More bolts were flying from more blasters, but Cina hardly noticed. She was too distracted by that simple, horrifying thought — that piece of trash, right there down the hall, shooting at them with a couple of his friends, Mission would be dead because of him. Rage hit all at once, harsh and overwhelming and  _cold_. But it didn't keep to itself, it mixed with that low heat at the small of her back she'd been trying to push away, and they rose together, jagged fire climbing up her throat, and her blood sparked and sang with it, lightning on her tongue, she felt abruptly too big for her own body, the roiling flames and slashing ice too  _much_  to fit inside her skull, and it built and built, until she thought she would burst like an overripe fruit, and then it built more, and more, and  _more_ , and—

Her augmented fury leapt out of her, sudden and hard, with a sharp jerk. And it rushed away, down the hall, the air rippling with a shock wave inaudible and (mostly) invisible. In a blink, it reached the Exchange slime.

A blink later, and the four of them were plastered against the wall, looking more like some obscene work of art than living beings, just another painting along the garish hall.

Huh. Lucky she hadn't shoved Desa quite that hard, that time in the library. If she was going to accidentally kill someone, she would much rather it be a few Exchange thugs than her (mostly forgotten) cousin.

Cina tore her eyes away, turning back to Mission. "Sooner would be better." Her own voice came out shaky, thin, as though she were out of breath, as though she'd been running for miles. And it wasn't the only thing, she felt suddenly weak, muscles twitching with exhaustion, and she was slowly losing control, she could feel it, like sand slipping through her fingers grain by grain. Pain and despair and screaming not her own was boiling under the surface, stronger with every second, shadowy flickers from the life of a woman whose name she still didn't know rising in the wake, and she didn't know how much longer she could keep it down.

To her credit, Mission only stared at her, wide-eyed and open-mouthed, for a couple more seconds before getting right back to it.

She wasn't looking that direction, couldn't actually see her, but she still felt Shan inch up behind her, the air about her thick with wariness a shade away from terror. Her voice in a low whisper, "Cina? Are you all right?"

Cina worked her tongue against the roof of her mouth for a moment, forcing the dryness away best she could. (When had that happened, she hadn't noticed.) "As soon as we get on the ship, I'm knocking myself out with a sedative."

"That...might be a good idea."

Despite herself, she couldn't help a snort of black laughter.  _Might?_  She could feel it, the bombardment had started, waves of agony and death crashing against her, so much more intense than the premonition of it had been in the atrium. The force of it had her teetering on her heels, it was all she could do to just remain standing, took all the will she had just to focus on the present moment. And it would only get worse, they'd just started in on it. If she had more outbursts like that one just now...

She wouldn't be surprised if she somehow unintentionally blew up the ship before they even got into orbit. It would be safer for everyone if she was unconscious.

Luckily, she didn't have to wait very long. Only a few short moments of peculiar, uncomfortable staring later, and the door was sliding open. Cina was walking out into the hangar before Mission had gotten her equipment disentangled. The hanger was a perfectly ordinary single-ship landing bay, she was sure, but in the moment she hardly even saw it, nor the ship inside it.

Instead, her awareness focused entirely on two figures, approaching the boarding ramp. One was a middle-aged man, with greying hair and heavy jowls, in gleaming armor too fancy to truly be effective, carrying a blaster rifle with awkwardness enough to imply he hadn't actually touched one in years. The second was younger, shorter and slimmer, wearing a long blue and orange leather coat and, absurdly, bulging black goggles over his eyes. Cina measured the distance with her eyes, they were too close, they'd be inside and have the door sealed before she could catch up. She could maybe shoot them from this range, but with one of the landing struts in the way, it wasn't a sure thing.

Kang and his henchman were going to make it.

No. No, they weren't.

Cina was hardly conscious of it, it didn't feel quite real, like she were flying, gliding over the floor instead of walking upon it. The hanger whipped by her so fast she could hardly even see it herself, her vision narrowing, her surroundings blurring. The peculiarly-dressed henchman was quick, had both of his blasters drawn and aimed in a blink, two bursts of yellow-orange plasma crawling across the air towards her, slow enough it was easy to put the blade of her lightsaber between them — she hadn't realised she'd turned the thing on again — the first shot pinging against the underside of the ship, the second turning back to strike the man in the shoulder, sending him reeling back.

The tip of the blade went down, and then back up, Cina planted her toes, coming to a stop, the blade coming down again.

Kang and his flamboyant henchman fell to the ground, both of them neatly bisected.

The flames coursing through her veins quickly drained away, slipping away from her with each breath. (It tasted like blood, like a summer storm.) She'd hardly realised it was there, but its sudden absence left her feeling tired, somehow...smaller, than she'd been before. Smaller and emptier. Some part of her, something wild and instinctive, wanted to fill herself with it again, wanted to reach for it, wanted to pull that fire into herself, so much of it her blood sang and her nerves burned, it didn't matter if she took in too much, she wanted it, she needed it to feel—

Cina forced the downward spiral out of her head with a sharp sigh. She blinked, the hanger around her swimming more into proper shape with each blink. The rest of them were still over by the door, some twenty metres away, still and staring.

Not that Cina could blame them — she  _had_  just pulled magic powers out of her arse. If she could allow herself a moment to process what was happening she'd probably be freaking out too.

"Well? Are you coming or not?"

* * *

With a flicker of pseudomotion hardly visible at this angle, the tiny freighter winked out of existence. Saul let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

Though perhaps that was a little premature. Alek was standing only a few steps away, looming over him, gaze fixed out the viewport toward where the ship had been. He was still, unnaturally still, looking more statue than man. But while he seemed less than alive, something about the air around him was not — a heavy charge on the air, something thick and cold, lightning a breath from striking. He was furious, obviously, there was no doubt about that.

And Saul knew exactly why. When Alek had ordered they focus everything they could on that one, seemingly insignificant freighter, one ship among many fleeing the planet, he'd known. There'd been an uncharacteristic note of urgency on his voice, he'd seemed so, so  _desperate_ , as Saul hadn't heard him in years, what felt like a lifetime ago, when they'd both still fought for the Republic. Saul knew exactly who was on that ship.

She'd made it out. She was alive.

_She's alive_.

Alek turned, just his head, the rest of his body still solid and unmoving. He directed a heavy glower down at Saul — though the word "glower" might be underselling it a bit. It was a look that communicated with its every inch utmost hatred, promised death, a death more painful than mortal imagination could possibly comprehend. It was hard, and cold, and merciless, and were they any other people in any other situation Saul might even be intimidated.

But the feeling didn't come. ( _She's alive._ ) Alek might be a few narrow steps short of total madness at this point, but he knew as well as Saul did that their failure to bring down the freighter wasn't their fault, not his. It was, in fact Alek's. He'd ordered them to direct all their resources, everything they had in orbit, toward atomizing the city, leveling the entire planet. Whoever was flying the freighter knew what he was doing: he'd picked a vector that put him as far from their guns as possible. None of their capital ships could reorient themselves in time to take the shot, there wasn't enough time for them to assign fighters to pursue. By the time Alek had given the order, it was already most likely impossible to fulfill.

Even were this failure truly his, Alek couldn't kill him for it. Saul was the best admiral they had — the only reason he hadn't been made Supreme Commander was because the Assembly felt his talents were most useful on the front lines. Alek's incompetent, amateur bungling of the campaign would have done a  _lot_  more damage if Saul weren't around to clean up his messes as much as was possible.

(The impetuous idiot only had to follow Lesami's strategy to the letter. If he'd just gone ahead with her plan, the Republic should have been on the edge of defeat by now. But of course he couldn't control himself. Even when he'd still been a conventional Jedi, Alek hadn't been the most temperate man he'd ever met.)

But, that wasn't the only reason Saul was irreplaceable. He wasn't just the Sith's most effective military leader — he was also their  _first_  military leader. (Excluding Lesami herself, of course.) A significant portion of the men of their fleet native to Republic space held, he knew, no small degree of personal loyalty to him. In the early days of the Empire, he'd been one of the symbols the fledgling state had rallied around — to his aggravation, Lesami had finally gotten her revenge for springing that promotion on her years ago — enough he was just as much an institution in their new nation as Lesami, or Nisotsa, or Alek himself.

With Lesami's death ( _she's alive_ ), with Nisotsa forced out of office on a transparently vacuous pretense, with Alek and his cronies' own excesses, the Empire was already starting to fracture. Alek was one wrong move from sparking a civil war. Saul wasn't certain killing him in a rage would be that wrong move, but he  _was_  certain it was possible.

Alek couldn't kill him. Not now, and possibly not ever. Saul knew that.

More importantly, Alek surely knew it too.

Shakily, with the stiff, unsteady gait of a droid overdue for essential maintenance, Alek turned on his heel and shuffled across the bridge. He was usually a very imposing man, but the way he was moving now, something indefinable was missing from his normal ethos, the Sith Lord appearing somehow less than he usually did. In a few brief seconds he was gone, taking the oppressive sense of danger with him.

Saul, with no real conscious decision on his part, found his eyes falling down to Kanyr's.

She hadn't protested, when she'd realized what was about to happen. Not for an instant. She hadn't even known why, why he'd had to do it. She'd just... She'd just stared up at him, grim but calm. She'd met his eyes, and there was no fear there, just a rueful sort of acceptance, and... _trust_. Kanyr trusted him, believed in him, knew there had to be a reason, a  _good_ reason, if Saul chose to do it it  _must_  be the correct choice. She trusted him, completely.

And he'd shot her in the head.

He thought, morbidly, that he wished he'd aimed a little lower. Her eyes were intact, still staring back at him, filled with accusation, with hatred, that was more his own than it was hers.

"Admiral?" That would be Rahn, wondering if Saul had any further orders. (He refused to consider the possibility that the Captain was concerned for him.) Saul properly should turn to face him, but he didn't. He knew he would find in his eyes that trust, that same unyielding faith that Kanyr had shown him in her last moments.

Sometimes, Saul wished they would stop looking at him like that. Sometimes, he thought his spine might shatter from the weight.

Before Rahn could get any ideas, Saul said, "Continue the bombardment, Captain." He hesitated for a moment — oh, hell, it wasn't like Alek was even here anymore. "Inform the fleet their performance during this particular engagement shall not be considered during any future evaluation of their effectiveness or their loyalty."

A very brief pause. "Understood, sir." And he did understand, Saul could hear it on his voice.

Saul couldn't  _directly_  halt the bombardment, not without disobeying an explicit order from Alek, which would give the lunatic the perfect excuse should he ever decide to do away with him one day. But he  _could_  give his people leeway to sabotage it themselves on the sly. They couldn't refuse to fire entirely, no, Alek would notice that. But, if a review of the "battle" later showed their gunners fired unusually slowly, and with pitiful accuracy not displayed during any other engagement in their careers, well, Saul was sure that would just be an unfortunate coincidence. There was a glitch in the targeting systems, all the caf had been brewed too weak, the sun was in their eyes. He needn't bother coming up with a plausible excuse, he doubted Alek would even look into it. He couldn't stop the assault on Taris, but he would soften it as much as his position allowed.

He knew his people would take the suggestion. He'd given similar orders before, and he doubted they relished the exercise of executing billions of Imperial citizens for absolutely no reason at all any more than he did.

"Get to it, then."

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir." And Rahn left him, the sharp clicks of his boots steadily drawing a straight line toward coms.

There wasn't anything that particularly needed his involvement at the moment, so Saul had no particular reason to move. Instead he just stood there, staring down at Kanyr. Her death was his fault, of course — if he hadn't recruited her to humor his desperate hopes, she would still be alive — but hers was hardly the first. He tried not to think about just much blood there was on his hands. It was overwhelming when he did, he had to...

Lesami had said, long ago, that sometimes one had to die for more, and sometimes more had to die for many. Sometimes hundreds of thousands had to die for all the uncounted trillions. The Jedi had found her honesty on the topic abhorrent, which was really more confusing than anything. The concept was natural to Saul, to virtually every career soldier he'd ever met. Lesami had simply put words to the unvoiced idea at the very core of their profession. After all, they had willingly made of themselves those who might die so others might not. What the Jedi and many civilians in the Republic thought was horrifying tragedy they thought was simple math.

All too often lately — and today especially, with Taris burning behind him and Kanyr dead at his feet — Saul wasn't certain the math worked out as it should.

_She's alive_. That was worth it. It would be worth it, it  _had_  to be.

It had to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Proving —  _A series of events held at the Temple on Coruscant every four months, intended to allow initiates (who've passed their trials or otherwise gotten approval) to attract masters to continue their training. Analogous to canonical Exhibition Day and the Apprentice Tournament._
> 
> Reassignment —  _The Council of Reassignment, one of the lower ruling councils of the Jedi Order overseeing the Service Corps. For those not in the know, Jedi initiates who aren't up to snuff or are never chosen as an apprentice(/padawan) are shuffled into the Service Corps, sort of half-Jedi who provide various services for the Republic. It's usually the Council of Reassignment who makes the final call on whether an initiate should be pulled out._
> 
> Ac̳ika —  _I debated for a while how to represent that first consonant before deciding on a diacritic that could easily be ignored (assuming it deigns to display properly). In IPA, this would be approximated_ /ɐ.ǂi.kʰa/ _. "Approximated" because alien phonology isn't necessarily perfectly transcribable with a script meant to represent human language, but close enough. That first consonant is a palatal click, which irl only exists in a handful of Khoisan languages. People who have no idea how to make those sounds can just pronounce this name "uh-kee-kah", I used the simplest characters possible to make it easier to read on purpose._
> 
> Pseudomotion —  _For those unaware, this is the term used in the books for the optical effects seen when ships enter/exit hyperspace._
> 
> * * *
> 
> _Not at all sure if much of this chapter works the way I tried to make it work, but it is what it is._
> 
> _Oh, yeah, so... This is still a thing? After two months? Whoops?_
> 
> _Long story short, I've been distracted by the[collab fic](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15294075) I'm doing with [LeighaGreene](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PseudoLeigha/pseuds/PseudoLeigha) and very irritating medical problems. Especially irritating because I've gotten an exhaustive suite of tests over the last couple months and they have no fucking clue what's causing it. Good fun. Basically, medical issues cutting down the energy available for writing, and what little I have ends up directed toward  **All According to Plan**  to (futilely) try to keep up with Leigha's output. So this fic ended up being shafted for a bit there. Oops._
> 
> _There has been a marginal improvement lately — or maybe I'm just getting better at powering through it, who knows — so updates will hopefully go back to being more frequent. We'll have to see._
> 
> _This (and **AAtP** ) might be my last major fanfic ever, actually. I've started making the transition toward original fiction. I've even stopped reading fanfic entirely now. So...there's that. I do still plan to finish this fic (at least through the end of KotOR I, but preferably the whole thing), because it entertains me and I'm irritated with leaving fics half-finished, but that'll likely be it._
> 
> _~Wings_


	11. Drawing Lines — I

_Sesai was drawn out of sleep by a shiver running through the bed, only a slight dip down then up. Had it happened a few minutes later, once he was more thoroughly under, he might not have woken at all. He opened his eyes, the darkened room too shadowed and blurry to make anything out. A few blinks helped the latter, but as his vision got clearer the shadows only grew more prominent, more alive, shifting back and forth as light struck into the room at random, unpredictable angles. Even indirectly, light blue and white and violet playing against the wall and ceiling, he recognized the ineffable maelstrom of hyperspace._

_Not that he'd expected to see anything else. There were all sorts of ridiculous superstitions surrounding space travel that had managed to persist through the millennia, one of the more widespread involving the chaotic colors and patterns of hyperspace. It was common knowledge that looking out into it for too long would drive a being insane — completely fictional knowledge, obviously, but people did enjoy their flights of fancy. Even those who didn't buy into that sort of thing often felt uncomfortable gazing out into hyperspace, something instinctual to most beings protesting as space twisted and broke apart in front of them, the plain_ wrongness  _of it instilling an eerie sense of unease._

_Lesami, on the other hand, just thought it was pretty. When the_ Vindicta  _had been being retrofitted after the discovery of the Forge, Lesami had made sure the admiral's quarters — most often hers, being her favored flagship — had a tall, wide bay of windows looking out. Even in the bloody bedroom. The transparisteel could be made opaque with the push of a button, but she left it open more often than not, even slept under the dancing lights._

_But she'd sort of been insane to begin with._

_So he wasn't surprised at all to see her there, leaning against the frame, staring out into riotous nothingness. There was a subtle sense of exhaustion in the way she slumped there, arms crossed low over her stomach, head resting against the window._

_And she hadn't bothered tracking down any clothes, the glow throwing her profile into sharp relief. Which was just_ cruel _._

_Sesai held back the first thing that occurred to him to say, too suggestive. Not that Lesami had a problem with suggestive, normally, she tended to enjoy him quite a lot (in multiple senses of the word), but there was a time for everything, and he knew this simply wasn't it._

_And then he held back the second thing._

_And the third._

_...And the fourth._

" _Can't sleep?"_

_Lesami shook her head, hair shuffling against her shoulders. He still thought long hair looked odd on her — all Jedi kept their hair short, barring a few exceptions here and there for one cultural reason or another. She hadn't started growing it out until after Malachor, after Csilla even, he still wasn't entirely used to it. She did have nice hair, of course, which she had to be aware of, and Lesami had never been entirely immune to vanity. (That was on the list of problems the Masters had had with her, in fact.) But, he remembered, back at the Temple, way back when they'd been children, she'd said longer hair was impractical, it just got in the way._

_These days she took rather more care with her appearance in general, actually. He guessed that sort of thing was just expected of empresses._

" _Don't let me keep you up. You have a busy day tomorrow."_

_Sesai snorted — that was one way of putting it, all right. The invasion of the Republic was starting tomorrow. They'd been in Republic space for nearly a week, actually, delicately paralleling hyperspace routes across half the galaxy. (That would be insanely dangerous, if they hadn't the Force to help them aim.) Around five in the morning — reckoned by local time at the Citadel, back on Dromund Kaas — they'd be dropping out of hyperspace within a short jump from Centares. Sesai, along with a plethora of other operatives and diplomats, would disembark there, slip into the Republic to pursue whatever their respective assignments were._

_Sesai was to return to Coruscant and infiltrate the Republic bureaucracy, find a way to slip himself into the Senate and the Temple. He had a list of names he was to try to recruit, if at all possible. He had a separate list of names, all of whom Lesami wanted dead._

_It was just like Lesami to call embarking on a dangerous mission of espionage and assassination a "busy day"._

_Of course, Lesami had a "busy day" too — immediately after dropping off Sesai and the others, the rest of the fleet would take two quick hops rimward along the Perlemian, to Columex. Where Lesami would command the opening battle of the war against the Republic. Really, her day would be far more draining than his. He'd just be slipping into the crowd and catching a transport coreward, really not that big of a deal._

_He considered a few different comments again before finally picking one. "You know, you really don't do anyone any good if you're too exhausted to think straight."_

_There was a brief flare of something..._ something _, he couldn't quite put words to it. Something heavy, almost suffocating. Lesami let out a brief sigh, the only external sigh she was feeling anything at all. "I know. I can always take an hour to meditate before the battle, it'll be fine."_

_That_ really  _wasn't a solution for the long term. But Lesami knew that just as well as he did, there was no point saying so. Latching on to the low-boiling discomfort shimmering in the air around her — Lesami had always been uneasy shouldering too much responsibility, which he guessed made her some kind of masochist — he decided to change the subject. Well, sort of. "I could help you get to sleep."_

_She turned away from the window. At this angle, it was hard to be sure, the way the shadows spilled across her face, but he was pretty sure she was giving him one of those flat, unimpressed looks of hers. "As I recall, you've already tried to wear me out twice tonight. Didn't get us anywhere, did it?"_

" _Well, you know what they say: try, try, try again."_

_With a snorted laugh, Lesami shook her head. "You are persistent, I'll give you that."_

" _That's what you pay me for."_

" _I_ don't  _pay you for that."_

" _Not for the sex." He smiled. "No, you just pay me to kill people you don't like. I'm good at that too."_

_The shadows crossing her face seemed to get darker. That same odd something radiated out from her, just for a second before she pushed it away again. Somewhat jerkily, she turned to gaze out the window again, her posture and her presence both as expressionless as the wall behind her._

" _That was a joke." It wasn't, not really, and they both knew it. The willingness to kill whoever she told him to_ because  _she told him to, that's not a joke. He did trust her to choose the right people, of course — assassination was serious business, he didn't go around killing people just for fun — but honestly, when it came down to it, he didn't even really think about it. He didn't care_ why  _Lesami wanted someone dead, just that she did, and he was in a position to get her what she wanted._

_Saying it quite that bluntly, though,_ that  _was a joke._

" _Put my foot in it again, I know. You know me, Sami, I'm really bad at not doing that."_

_That, at least, had another rebellious laugh forcing its way out of her nose. It was rather thin and cold, but at least it was there. "I still don't know how you ever manage to maintain your cover. You can hardly get through a normal conversation without saying something idiotic."_

" _Most people are idiots." He shrugged. "Besides, nobody ever suspects the Zeltron."_

_Lesami matched his shrug, acknowledging the point. Sesai's people did have a reputation for being self-destructively short-sighted and pathologically hedonistic — generally speaking, people suspected Zeltrons were out to seduce practically everyone they met, but they were the_ last  _beings most would expect to be up to something nefarious. His "cover" usually involved just...acting like a stereotypical Zeltron. It was surprisingly effective._

_Those stereotypes were completely accurate, of course, but that was neither here nor there._

_But anyway, he figured that was enough distraction to actually get to the point. "So, are you going to tell me what's wrong this time?" It could go either way, really, Lesami being a rather private person she leaned toward not talking about what was going on in her head. Well, not about personal issues, anyway. Honestly, the tendency many other peoples had to, just, keep things to themselves was still baffling to him — he hadn't spent very much of his life on Zeltros, the Jedi had come for him when he'd been only five (standard) years old, but he'd still absorbed enough of the culture that certain things just didn't click. Zeltrosi were as a rule far more open, the impulse toward privacy many other beings had still felt strange._

_Lesami let out a long sigh, sagging a bit against the frame. "How is it you put it? I'm surrendering to my impulse to think everything to death, and then keep tearing it apart until it's completely unrecognisable."_

" _Something like that." When he'd said it, he'd probably been a bit cruder about it, but the central idea sounded like the sort of thing he would have said. "What is it this time?"_

" _Does it matter?"_

" _If it's bothering you this much, obviously it does."_

_For a long moment, Lesami didn't respond, just stared out into hyperspace in perfect silence, hardly even seeming to breathe. Though maybe it was just hard to see, the swirling light throwing shifting shadows._

_Sesai just waited. Either she'd decide to tell him, or she wouldn't, nothing he could say would sway her either way. He was nearly certain she would — he was in a rather privileged position when it came to this sort of thing. They had known each other for most of their lives, and he was, well, himself. He couldn't imagine anything that could be going on in there that he would ever...he didn't know, judge her for. Normal people were judgy sometimes, it got irritating. (Maybe that was why they kept so much to themselves, come to think of it.) That she was even considering it at all suggested she was leaning toward telling him. She still had to think about it, because Lesami was overcautious about this sort of thing, but he was pretty sure._

_And he was proven right after a minute or so. "Do you ever wonder if we're doing the right thing?"_

_He blinked. "No."_

_Her shoulders jerked with a start, and she turned back to face him again. With her profile throwing shadows deep across her face, it was hard to tell for sure, but he suspected that was a confused frown. "No? You never think about it at all?"_

" _You know," Sesai said, an involuntary smile pulling at his lips, "it's a little odd to bother asking a question you very clearly expected a particular answer to."_

That  _one was probably a glare. "Don't try to talk like Kreia. You're terrible at it."_

_Well, yeah, he suspected he would be. He didn't understand half the confusing shit that came out of Lesami's eccentric old master's mouth. Listening to the two of them talk just gave him a headache. "_ Mai-mai _, not the point. Is that it? You're having second thoughts?"_

" _Sesai, we're trying to_ overthrow the Republic _."_

" _More than_ trying _, I hope. Would be rather embarrassing if all this work came out to nothing."_

_Lesami let out a low sound, somewhere between a chuckle and a scoff. "And that doesn't bother you at all? It wasn't that long ago we were fighting to_ defend  _the Republic."_

" _Maybe_ you  _were." He shrugged. "Well, fighting to defend the_ people  _of the Republic, anyway, that's not quite the same thing."_

" _What do you mean, maybe_ I  _was? You were there too, you might recall, as long as I was."_

_Sesai opened his mouth to answer on reflex — then cut himself off, hard enough his throat made a little gulping sound. He hesitated a moment, tongue working against his teeth, considering how exactly he should put it. Or whether he should put it at all. If he couldn't feel the subtle heat of Lesami's impatience against his skin, he might have chosen to say nothing. "I'm not sure you want to hear it, Sami."_

_She snorted. "If people only told me what I wanted to hear, we wouldn't be here."_

_That was certainly true. "Well, fine. Just don't get all...mopey."_

" _Mopey?" The single word came in that low, dangerous tone she'd developed during the war, but missing the frigid sense of danger that usually came with it. She felt more amused than anything._

" _I suspect you're going to perfect brooding at this rate, all the practice you've gotten in lately."_

" _Sometimes I wonder if you're trying to annoy me."_

" _Only sometimes. Anyway, what I was saying. I didn't do all this for the reasons you did. I just, um..." He trailed off, biting his lip. They'd never talked about this, but somehow he just knew she was going to hate this, quite a lot. "Honestly, I wouldn't have left to fight the Mandalorians if it were anyone else suggesting it. I wouldn't be here now if it were anyone else. I don't think about whether we're doing the right thing, because..." He grasped for the right words for a second, couldn't find any he quite liked, shrugged it off. "I don't know. Worrying about that sort of thing is your job. I just do what you tell me."_

_She_ didn't  _like that. Her face was impossible to make out clearly, but he could feel the unease washing off of her, thick and dark and nauseating. He'd noticed this before, over the course of the war, as she gradually accumulated influence and power. Only all the more since she'd taken over and remade the Sith Empire. She hid it well, but Sesai knew her better than most people did. (Not to mention, Zeltron telepathy was sort of cheating.) She didn't trust herself with power. It terrified her._

_Which was sort of hilarious, really, given she'd literally just usurped a throne not that long ago. But, as far as he was concerned, people who didn't_ like  _power were the ones best suited to have it. So he wasn't complaining, it was just kinda funny._

_Quieter, hardly above a whisper, she said, "What if I'm wrong?"_

_He shrugged. "Wrong by who's definition? Right and wrong are a matter of opinion. I'm inclined to trust yours."_

" _I wish you wouldn't say things like that."_

" _Then don't ask next time."_

_Lesami let out a harsh huff, shaking her head to herself. "I did walk into that, I guess."_

_He smirked. "You do have a habit of walking into things. Blasterfire, mostly."_

" _I guess," she said, a hint of laughter bleeding into her voice, "at least I manage to make it out untouched most of the time."_

" _Only most of the time?" Sesai didn't remember Lesami ever being_ seriously  _injured — there had been a few near misses, but..._

" _One of those things I walk into is your bed."_

_Shaking with a low chuckle, he said, "There is that. I see you've gone back to punning. Does that mean I managed to help?"_

" _Not really." That was underselling it somewhat — again, Zeltron telepathy was cheating. That heavy cloud hanging over her, growing far too familiar these days, that was still there. But it had retreated somewhat, if only a little, leaving Lesami feeling softer, looser. If only a little, if only for the moment._

_Sesai nearly said something about that, again, but bit his tongue. It really wasn't his place. More to the point, she wouldn't do anything about it anyway._

" _But it'll do for now. Just..." Lesami fidgeted a little, her feet shuffling. "Just, don't... If you do ever think I'm going too far, say something about it."_

_He didn't think that particularly likely — Lesami was far better at managing her own worst impulses than he would be. But there was no use in arguing the point. "Sure, I can do that. You coming back to bed, then?"_

" _What, you're looking to_ help me get to sleep  _again?"_

" _I certainly wouldn't say no..."_

_Shaking her head to herself, Lesami pushed off the wall, started back for the bed. He couldn't tell for sure, but he thought that there might be an exasperated look. "You're incorrigible, you know."_

_Oh, he did. There wasn't a whole lot he could do about that, and he didn't really care to try._

_Of course, given that Lesami was already straddling him ten seconds later, she probably didn't care too much either._

* * *

Cina lingered at the door, watching silently. She wasn't sure she'd be welcome.

After waking up from her little drug-assisted nap, things were...different. She meant, it hadn't really gone away. The Force stuff. It was still there.  _Everything_  was still there — she could feel the contours of the inside of the ship, every surface, all the fixtures, all around her, she could feel their shape and their texture as clearly as though she were actually touching it all, with the very tips of her fingers, all of it at once. It was a bit disorienting, really, too much to pay attention to at once. She tried to just ignore it.

And that wasn't the only knew thing she was trying to ignore. She could... She could feel the other people on the ship, Mission and Zaalbar, Asyr and Carth, Kandosa, bright spots of warmth among cold emptiness, hot on her not-fingers, bright enough she could feel them from across the ship. Throwing off sparks by the hundreds, thoughts and feelings flying off of them into nothingness, too much,  _far_  too much, it hurt to look at them too closely, emotion and memory not her own flooding her head. It made talking to any of them sort of tense and uncomfortable. Everyone except Shan anyway — she didn't throw off sparks at all, her warmth oddly shadowed — but talking to her had already been difficult for other reasons.

Or perhaps  _they_  were uncomfortable with her now, not the other way around. She had just pulled magic powers out of nowhere. She could see how that might make people uncomfortable.

By the time she woke up, Mission had already been holed up in the com suite for a while. Tinkering with the ship's computer systems, as far as she could tell, she hadn't actually explained. Kandosa wasn't certain she'd spoken at all since they'd left Taris. The girl was slumped there in the single chair in the tiny room, reddened eyes fixed unblinkingly on the bank of screens in front of her, tapping away at the complicated-looking control panel. A meal pack sat at the edge of the board, had been there for some hours by the look of it, barely picked at.

More than she could see it, Cina could feel it. The sparks flying from her were heavy and dark, the air around her thick with shadows and fire. Mission was trying to distract herself, focus on something other than the obliteration of Taris, the murder of her whole world, everything she'd ever known. According to Kandosa, she hadn't even cried. She was pushing it away, but she couldn't do that forever, eventually it would feel real, and...

Cina wanted to help, but... What the fuck could she possibly say? Everyone Mission had ever known was likely dead — no words existed that could make that better. She had no idea what to do.

Her eyes turned to Zaalbar, sitting behind Mission, taking up the little available floorspace in the room. He had a gadget of some kind in his lap, half-disassembled, wires and circuit boards bared to the air. Whatever that was, he'd paused in his work, looking up at her.

She opened her mouth to speak, then cut off, glancing at Mission. She used RSL instead, Mission knew it so Zaalbar had probably picked it up at some point too.  _Are you okay?_

Zaalbar's eye widened slightly. He set the whatever-it-was down in his lap, freeing his hands to talk. All the fur made it a little hard to make out the hand-shapes, but he was clearly used to working around that, emphasising harder and holding longer than would be expected.  _I will be fine. Taris was not my world for true._  Good point — he hadn't been there nearly as long as Mission, and she'd gotten the impression she was the only person he really talked to anyway.  _I am worried for her by one._

_Me too. Find me if you need whatever?_

He blinked at her for a second — surprised? — before nodding.  _Promise_.

Alright, then. Nodding back, Cina turned and walked into the main body of the ship.

When it came down to it, the  _Ebon Hawk_ , the ship they'd managed to liberate from an Exchange crime lord, was a perfectly typical light freighter. Of course, "perfectly typical" meant someone had modded and tweaked the thing to their heart's content. Whoever Kang had doing his work had done a rather thorough job, Cina would be surprised if it even had any stock parts anymore.

It was a fairly ordinary light freighter at first glance, though with a few more luxuries than most. All the surfaces were done in gleaming black and gold, shimmering under blue argon lights — the effect was a bit more solemn than she'd expected, but pleasant all the same. Measuring at about twenty-five metres in every direction (best she could guess by sight), it had everything one would expect from a ship meant to ferry modest crew and cargo. The cockpit at the front (which Cina hadn't even set foot in), the com station just behind it, crew bunks to the front of the wings, larger and taller cargo holds toward the rear, the middle taken up with a wide, open space, seemingly a fusion of kitchen, mess, and workshop.

All typical, though rather unusual in the details. The beds were surprisingly comfortable, the plush lounges and sofas looked to be made of real leather, the kitchen was an actual  _kitchen_ , not just the reprocessors that were all most people bothered with. (Which made her wonder why Mission had just been given a pre-prepped meal pack, but that didn't really matter right now.) There was some pretty serious tech sitting around, just the contents of that central room had to run millions of credits added up. The cargo bays were half-full of crate after crate, though they hadn't found a manifest, so they weren't sure exactly what all was in there. Kandosa was poking through them — he'd found a lot of food and replacement parts so far — but at the pace he was going the inventory would take a few days.

Cina was slightly surprised, walking into the central room, to find Asyr and Carth at the holotable, in the middle of a game of chess (or some variant, couldn't tell from here). She'd only left two minutes ago, they started up fast. To be honest, she was a little surprised they even knew how to play — it was a rather archaic game, only known in certain subcultures these days. She didn't have anything better to do at the moment, so she drifted over, took one of the empty seats.

Carth tensed with her presence, just noticeably, Cina's skin itching with his anxiety. And here she'd thought they'd gotten over his suspicion of her back on Taris. Silly her.

She should leave it be. She really should. They'd be landing on Dantooine tomorrow, and chances where she'd never see Carth again. As soon as he made contact with his superiors, he'd be recalled and reassigned somewhere — the galaxy was a big place, they'd be unlikely to run into each other if they didn't make a conscious effort to do so. But it just... Those side-eye glances just irritated her, okay. She  _knew_  he was thinking something disapproving to himself, and that was  _irritating_ , because she'd solved all his bloody problems for him, and he was looking at her like she might snap and kill them all or something.

She was  _so_  tired of their shite — Carth, Shan, both of them.

"If you have a problem with me, Onasi, just come out and say it."

Her hand halfway across the board, Asyr froze, eyes flicking between the two of them. "Ah... Would you like me to leave the room?"

"That depends on him, I suppose."

He shot her a moody glare, shook his head. "It doesn't matter." Turning away, with every sense of dismissal, he made his move.

A move which happened to be a terrible tactical blunder — he was leaving his centre  _far_  too vulnerable from the right — but he probably wouldn't appreciate Cina pointing that out. She was sure Asyr would take advantage of it anyway, he'd learn by getting his arse kicked. "It matters to me."

"Why should it?" He sounded oddly resentful saying that. Which was just confusing.

"Because you've suddenly reverted to watching me like I'm going to stab you in the back, and I have no idea why. It's annoying."

Asyr winced. Apparently, whatever Carth's problem was he'd told Asyr about it. She leaned back in her chair, folding her arms over her chest, settling in to wait for Carth to focus on the game again.

Because he had turned away, facing Cina with a hard, incredulous glare. "No idea? You have  _no idea_  what you did?"

Glaring right back, Cina drawled, "I don't know, the only thing I remember doing to you lately is accomplishing  _your mission_  with sparing little help from you. Maybe I should just not help you next time, if you're going to be an arse about it."

That didn't seem to make him any less angry with her. "It's  _how_  you did it that's the problem."

"I know you thought my ideas were a little, well, insane, but—

"Not  _that_. Hell," voice bouncing with a humourless laugh, "you don't even see what the problem is! It's nothing to you, is it, what you did to those men."

She frowned. "Which men?" Did he mean the ones she'd taken out with the plasma grenades? Sure, she'd killed a couple dozen people all at once, and the results had been a bit gruesome, but surely Carth had seen worse than that by now, he shouldn't be reacting this badly.

"The ones you crushed against the wall."

It took her a second to remember which he was talking about. She'd killed four people — three, technically, she was pretty sure one had already been hit — with Force magic nonsense, pushing them so hard bones had shattered and skin burst, covering the wall with blood and viscera. At least, that was the vague sense she had? Honestly, she barely remembered it. She was all but certain she hadn't even meant to do it at the time. Hadn't known she  _could_  do it — it had been instinctual, she wasn't certain she'd be able to even lightly shove anything if she tried again now. "Oh. Er...so? I don't get it." Really, he'd seen her kill  _far_  more than four people...

"I've fought with Jedi before, Cina," he said, voice dropped to a low, harsh hiss. "I've seen Sith fight before. What you did to those men, it..." Carth trailed off, turned to stare off to her right, eyes slightly unfocused.

Which was just...weird. She honestly couldn't see what was so bad about what she'd done. Those men would have died either way. If anything, killing them the way she had was a mercy. Unless the shots that took them were  _very_  well-aimed, it'd take some long moments of agony for them to die, assuming they didn't live to be slowly crushed or cooked in the bombardment. What she'd done to them would have been virtually instant. They might not even have realised what was happening before it was over. It  _had_  been messy, she guessed, but...

"You were Sith, weren't you? Before."

"I still don't remember any of it." Well, she had a few memories here and there, but they were broken and disjointed — the only ones she could really make sense of were from earlier in her life. "I asked Shan about it, though. I'm told I was a Jedi, until I joined the Revanchists and continued on into the Sith."

Asyr's eyes widened, stomach-shivering sparks bursting in the air. She thought that might be surprise (this mind-reading thing was fucking weird), which was odd, because with how Asyr had reacted earlier she'd clearly already known what Carth was going to say. Had she thought he was wrong? Eh, didn't really matter — Asyr relaxed a moment later, fixing her with a rather odd look, but not any more tense than she'd been a moment ago. It clearly didn't make much of a difference to her.

Carth, though, his face twisted with a scowl, eyes hot with anger. But it was more than that, something hard and sharp, like cold nails dragging across her skin, she couldn't quite suppress a shiver. (If she could remember how to turn off this Force empathy thing, that'd be great.) He might be trying to  _look_  like he was angry, but Cina was pretty sure that was pain of some kind. Betrayal, maybe? "I should have known. You're just insane enough to be Sith."

Taken aback by the venom suddenly appearing in his voice, it took Cina a couple seconds to find her own. "That's funny, it wasn't that long ago you were saying I'm just insane enough to be a Jedi."

"Oh, cute. Nice to know you're taking this seriously."

"I think I'm being exactly as serious as this nonsense deserves."

Okay, that — heat pressing against her, like standing too close to a fire, hundreds of tiny insects pinching at her skin —  _that_  was anger. "What, it doesn't even  _matter_  to you? Empire, Republic, who cares?"

Cina shrugged. "I really don't remember anything, but I realise we were fighting on opposite sides of a war. I don't see why that should mean—"

"It's not about  _opposite sides of_ —" Carth forced out a thick sigh, one hand coming up to run through his hair. "It's not so simple as  _sides_ , Cina. The Sith, they're, they're... They're just  _evil_."

It was probably only going to make him angrier, but it had already happened before she could even try to stop herself — Cina rolled her eyes. That pinching heat  _did_  get worse, Cina spoke before he could say something likely inane. "Oh,  _honestly_ , Carth, are you a bloody child? That's what societies at war  _always_  say: the other side is cruel and depraved, we are good and virtuous. Every time, it's perfectly predictable.  _The Sith are evil_ , I mean, really, you realise there are  _tens of trillions_  of beings in the Empire? Shite, probably  _hundreds_. And they're all evil, are they? I'm sure."

"I don't mean all the ordinary beings trapped under their heel—"

"Under whose heel? You do realise the Empire is a syndical democracy?"

" _Hjanethe_ , you're showing your Imperial bias." That faint expression on Asyr's face, as hard to read as Bothans could be, looked like amusement. Through the weird synesthetic empathy thing Cina was trying to get used to, it felt more ambiguous, oddly...she didn't know, twitchy? Not entirely sure how to read that. "The Republic and the Empire use the word differently. When the Empire says 'Sith', it's a general term applied to all of their citizens. The Republic just uses it for their Jedi, and sometimes their military."

"Oh." Cina hadn't noticed that. That was, just, sort of silly, wasn't it? The Sith had been a single species, originally, the same term eventually extending to cover the whole of their multiracial society. Restricting the word to a much smaller organisation, who were and always had been a tiny minority was just...well, "silly" really was the best word for it.

His glare narrowing on Asyr now, Carth bit out, "Those monsters aren't Jedi."

Asyr's brow twitched, that tickling sense of amusement running along Cina's spine intensifying. "They have inexplicable magic powers and run about waving around lightsabers. Scan like Jedi to me."

"The Sith actually inherited the use of lightsabers from the Jedi," Cina said, almost without even meaning to. "A splinter sect of the Jedi, exiled from the Republic about three thousand years ago, stumbled across the Sith homeworld. The old Sith had their native traditions, of course, but the Jedi and the Sith seem so similar for a reason — they have common heritage. Of course, the most visible of the modern Sith were trained by the Order in the first place, so..."

With another burst of amusement, Asyr rumbled, "Thank you, Professor."

"Shush, you."

Carth clearly didn't think appreciate their joking around. His eyes only more venomous than they'd been a moment ago — though, for the moment, still focused on Asyr — he said, in something more like a low growl than a proper human voice, "I just can't believe you don't care at all. If it makes no difference to you, why are you fighting with us at all?"

"Obviously, it  _does_  make a difference to us." One of Asyr's shoulders rose in a languid shrug. (An imitated human gesture, Bothans didn't do that amongst themselves.) "I can't tell you why we decided to ally with you — I'm not privy to Council meetings. I know for a fact that the Empire offered an alliance as well, but we chose the Republic in the end. We must have thought fighting with you was in the best interests of the Bothan people. I don't know what that interest is, but I trust it is so.

"We don't see this as the black-and-white moral conflict you do. It is a war, and all wars are the same when you get down to it. Perhaps, since it is less personal to us, it is simply easier for us to see both Republic and Empire as they are."

"This isn't like other wars. The Sith have to be stopped."

"So every nation has always said of its foes."

"Other people don't  _kill whole planets!"_

Asyr sniffed. "We're just forgetting the Kiirium Reaches ever existed, then."

That actually managed to break Carth's anger, if only for a moment. Blinking in mute confusion, he managed only, "The what?"

"You want to take this one, Professor?"

"I suppose I could." Cina tried not to smile — that would only make Carth annoyed again. "You probably know the Hutts fought a vicious defensive war against the Tionese over twenty thousand years ago. Some generations later, when the Tionese first made contact with the young Republic, the Hutts feared the two human-dominated powers would unite against them. So, in preparation for an invasion that never came, the Hutts attacked the Kiirium Reaches, along their border with the Tionese. The entire human population of every single one of those planets was annihilated with fission bombs and destroyed the hyperspace beacons, which were still necessary for interstellar travel at the time, reducing the entire area to an inhospitable, unnavigable wasteland. We don't know exactly how many Tionese-settled worlds there were in the region, but it had to be dozens."

In an overly casual drawl, Asyr said, "I'm not surprised it's not mentioned in the standard Republic history curriculum. It was so very long ago, and the Perlemian War followed soon after. Not to mention, the Kiirium Reaches were on the far rim, outside of the Republic and settled by enemies — why should your Republic care?"

"I'm from the rim, you know," Carth said through grit teeth.

"Yes, but you don't decide what history is taught in Republic schools."

Carth forced out a low grunt, as though reluctantly acknowledging the point. "I'm not saying the Sith have a monopoly on evil. The Hutts aren't as bad, but they're not far from it."

This time, the derisive laugh burst past Cina's lips before she could stop it. Carth turned a glare on her, but she managed to get control of herself before he could start yelling at her. "I'm sorry, Carth, but are you trying to suggest the Republic has  _never_  done anything equally as monstrous? I mean, even just speaking of the Tionese, do you remember how the Perlemian War actually ended? The Tionese offered an unconditional surrender. The Republic refused to accept it. Instead, they parked their fleet over Deservo, which was the Tionese capitol at the time, and  _levelled the entire planet_. The death toll is estimated to be  _over forty billion_ , most of them innocent civilians. Twenty thousand years later, and Deservo has  _still_  never fully recovered, it remains a sparsely-developed ruin to this day.

"And that's hardly the last time the Republic did something reprehensible. The Coruscanti bombardment of Alsakan in the eleventh millennium killed billions and devastated the environment, it took a century of terraforming before the world was habitable again. The settlement of the rim is replete with innumerous atrocities — exterminations and enslavements of native civilisations, mostly. To this day, Republic owned and operated corporations  _still_  enslave billions on the rim. And, let's not forget the Pius Dea Crusades, a thousand years of constant war fought with the  _explicit intent_  of genocide. No, the Republic is hardly so noble and innocent as you pretend."

"What, because the Republic did something bad ten thousand years ago, it's perfectly fine if the Sith do the same thing now?"

Under her breath, Asyr started hissing in her native language. Curses often weren't directly translatable, but the general feel of it was about typical humans being self-righteous idiots. Not surprising, seeing as how the Bothans successfully managed to beat back assaults by the Pius Dea Republic multiple times, though not without losses. Losses deep enough the scars were still visible throughout much of their culture, thousands of years later — the Bothans hadn't been nearly so militant of a people as they were now before the Crusades had forced them to adapt to survive, and the war remained the primary reason they'd never actually joined the Republic.

Cina shrugged. "Seven thousand years ago, actually, and the Crusades were  _far_  worse than anything the Sith have done. Just ask the Dalinar, or the Teirasan, or the Marshak, or the Kwenni, or the Namlhta, or the Dras — oh wait, you can't, they don't exist anymore. But no, that's not what I'm saying. You're the one picking sides. I don't have any stake in this one way or the other."

"You  _were_  a Sith!"

"So Shan tells me. But I don't see what that has to do anything, it's not like I remember it. Honestly, I don't see why I should care which one comes out on top. I mean, you were just on a Sith planet — did daily life for average people really seem that different to you? Taris is a border world, and one with its own problems at that, but you can't honestly say it was any better under the Republic."

"They're all being murdered  _right this second!"_

"Well, yes, but I'd bet you anything Alek ordered that. Everybody knows he's a homicidal maniac. They—"

"Malak."

Cina blinked at the interruption, raised an eyebrow at Asyr. "What?"

"You're showing your Imperial bias again. The Republic still uses his pseudonym from the Mandalorian War."

"Ah. I'm going to keep using his real name, thanks — 'Malak' just sounds silly. Anyway," she said, turning back to Carth, "as I was saying, they have lunatics like Alek, or Cariaga, or Talvon, or Voren, but they also have people like Nisotsa, Saul, Sesai, Yenish, Harna— Okay, what now?"

Asyr was chuckling, a low, harsh rumble, the tickling running across Cina's skin so strong it was distracting. "I'm sorry, but, do you even realize you're calling all these infamous Sith by their first names?"

The only answer Cina had for that was an exasperated roll of her eyes.

Carth entirely ignored the byplay. Frowning so hard his brow almost appeared physically thicker, eyes so intense they almost burned, he growled, "If you can think  _Saul Karath_  is a good man, you really are insane."

"Ah..." When it came down to it, Cina couldn't think of why she had such a positive opinion of Admiral Karath — all she knew of him was from Republic propaganda, cast as a hero in one war and a villain in the next. "Well, he does have something of a noble reputation, doesn't he?"

His glare only grew hotter, Cina's skin itched with it. "Maybe he did, before he murdered  _my entire homeworld_."

She blinked. That sort of explained a lot — Carth did seem to be making this whole Sith thing strangely personal. If he was from Telos, well, she couldn't exactly blame him for being irrational about the Sith, could she? "Alek is responsible for Telos."

"What difference does  _that_  make?!"

Her mouth opened to answer, but she stopped, let it slowly fall closed again. No institution, especially one as complex as an interstellar government, was monolithic. They were composed of individual beings, with individual motives and interests. From an internal perspective, which faction was involved in specific endeavours, even which individual, that could become critically important. It could make  _all_  the difference.

( _She could kill him for this. She_ should  _kill him for this—_ )

But to someone on the outside? What did such internal distinctions look like to them? Were they even visible at all? After a brief, uncomfortable silence, Cina finally said, "I suppose it doesn't. Just as it wouldn't make a difference to you if I said I'm all but positive I was one of Revan's people."

His lip curling, as though he'd just bit into something intolerably bitter, Carth slowly shook his head. "They're both traitors and murderers."

"As they are, so am I, and so I'll always be to you. So I guess we have nothing more to say to each other."

"No, I guess we don't." Shoving himself up to his feet, Carth flicked his king, the illusory game piece tipping over. "You were going to win, anyway." Then he stalked away, stomping off toward the right-side crew bunks.

Well. That could have gone better.

Somewhat reluctantly, Cina turned a questioning look back on Asyr. Switching languages, as she usually did when they were alone, she said, "We're not going to have a problem now, are we?"

Asyr let out a short, amused huff. "I fail to see why I should be angry with you for circumstances you have no control over and do not remember."

"I shouldn't think so, but there went Carth."

"The Captain is a loyal soldier." Asyr said it flatly, with a note of finality, as though that explained everything one might want to know, and there was no need to discuss it any further. Which, in a way, it did, and there wasn't. "Since I didn't get my game out of Onasi?"

Cina frowned down at the game board. It was very vague, far at the back of her head, too fuzzy to get a clear image, but a few impressions floated to the surface. A dusty room cast with slanted evening sunlight, the twining smells of exotic tisanes and tangy pastries, smooth ceramic against her fingers, a lined, laughing face framed with curling silver hair —  _Yuse_ , that was his name, her great-uncle Yuse. "Are you sure about that? I have a feeling I'm quite good."

"Let's find out, shall we?"

By the time dinner came around, they'd discovered "quite good" was something of an understatement.

* * *

"Shan, can I ask you something?"

While she did still tense at the sound of Cina's voice, she relaxed significantly quicker than she had before. At least, so long as Asyr wasn't around — Shan had stormed off to sleep in the common room last night, but not before making it  _very_  clear she didn't approve. Which had just been irritating. What Cina and Asyr might or might not got up to with each other was absolutely none of the snobby Jedi's business.

Not that Cina had complained about her leaving — with Mission still holed up in the coms station with Zaalbar she and Asyr had had the room to themselves.

When Shan turned to face her, her brow was just slightly lowered with irritation, as though she knew exactly what Cina had just been thinking. "What is it?"

"Do you feel that?"

The frown deepened slightly. "Feel what?"

"I don't know." She didn't really remember how this Force... This sixth-sense thing was very confusing, she guessed. She knew she  _should_  be able to control it, she just didn't remember how. Which essentially meant she'd regressed to the skills she'd had as a child — she had a vague feeling she'd always had this, but the Jedi had taught her how to control it. She didn't remember how to turn it off, nor how to focus it on a particular thing. It was just... _there_ , like a thousand hands constantly touching everything around her.

Which could be rather disorienting at times, but not all bad — Asyr naked was rather more interesting now, for one thing.

"I think..." Cina trailed off, trying to figure out exactly what she thought. It was such a vague feeling she'd been getting, she wasn't even entirely certain it was there at all, she didn't know how to... "Do you... Do you ever have the feeling we're not alone on this ship?"

Shan stared at her for a moment, still and heavy. "I have not felt anything of the like. But you have?"

"I don't know. I just..." Cina had no idea. It was so subtle, like a distant echo hardly heard, quiet enough to suspect she'd never heard it at all. She'd only bothered asking Shan at all because she couldn't figure it out herself. "I don't know. Maybe I'm just imagining it."

"Perhaps. Perhaps not. If the Force is trying to speak to you, it would be unwise to ignore it."

_That_  was completely unhelpful. As usual.

Cina hadn't even had time to put the issue completely out of mind when it was whispering at her again. On the way toward the right-side cargo bay, where she was certain she could find Kandosa tinkering away, she jerked to a halt in the middle of the kitchen as something passed by her. Not something she could see, certainly, and not really anything she could feel either. It was as a breath of wind, weak, hardly strong enough to pick at a couple hairs, but not a physical wind, something more... She didn't know, she didn't have the language for this weird Force stuff.  _Something_  had just been there, anyway.

No, not some _thing_. Some _one_. She was sure of it now. She couldn't say how, but she knew. There was someone else here. Someone who'd remained perfectly hidden for a full day, even from a Jedi.

That...was unsettling.

Acting more on instinct than any real thought, Cina shuffled into motion, drifting across the common room. She followed the faintest scent on the air — though it wasn't a scent, really. More a subtle charge, the taste of a storm about to strike, lightning withheld, but thin, so thin, almost too little to follow. Cina thought she'd lost it more than once, but she kept finding it again, a bare thread drawing her deeper into the ship, further, step by step.

Into the left-side cargo bay. It led her between the towers of crates, down one row, across a column, then down another row...then back to the first one. She hadn't gotten lost, if anything she was getting closer, her quarry trying to lose her. And she was frightened now, this mystery person she was following. She felt it as phantom ice sliding against her spine, pins prickling at her skin, and she was closer now, whoever it was had nowhere to go, they both knew it.

When that something came again, not-wind brushing past her face, Cina's hand snapped out down and to her right without thought. It landed on something solid, the contact drawing the hidden person out into the light.

Cina frowned — it was a little girl. She couldn't be older than ten, if she was even that old, dressed in dirty tatters, grease smeared all over her skin, matted hair so filthy Cina couldn't be certain what colour it was supposed to be. Her legs and arms were scrawny, covered in nicks and scratches, thin enough Cina could make out every contour of the bones of her bare feet and ankles.

And she was so  _bright_. Standing next to her was like standing too close to a furnace, looking too directly into a sun, but it didn't  _hurt_ , exactly. The effect was more like, like having too much caf in one sitting, the light making her twitchy, almost giddy. It was hard to believe, now, that neither she nor Shan had noticed  _this_  had been on the ship the whole time.

Of course, the girl's fear also exploded across her at the same time the rest did — that was  _far_  less pleasant, sharp and hot and nauseating. The girl screamed and flailed, tried to pull away from Cina, slapping at her arm. "No, don't — I'm sorry, I didn't mean — let me  _go_ , no—"

Cina snapped out of it in a couple seconds, tearing her metaphorical eyes away from what she instinctively knew was the girl's...whatever it was called. Jedi magic shite, all that, whatever. She lifted her hand away from the girl's shoulder, lifted them both up, palm-out. "I'm not going to hurt you. It's okay." It was only after she spoke that Cina realised the girl had been yelling in Mandoa.

The girl did stop yelling — instantly, like someone had hit her pause button — but she didn't seem to actually believe Cina. She had her back pressed against a nearby crate, bright green eyes fixed solidly on Cina's, still and sharp and unmoving. Waiting.

Forcing her voice low and gentle, the Mandoa sounding almost musical, Cina said, "You are very clever, to hide here so long. My name is Cina. What is yours?"

Her eyes narrowed into a suspicious glare. She searched Cina's face for something over long seconds, before finally deciding to answer. "Vesaise of Sulem."

Cina held back the urge to frown, not wanting to scare the girl any further. At the end of the War, Revan — who, having defeated the Mandalor in a formal duel, had technically been the new (interim) Mandalor — had ordered the clans to disperse, sending Mandoade society into a disorganised galaxy-wide diaspora. It hadn't gone perfectly smoothly: the Sulem, one of the more powerful clans of Jakelia, had been drawn into a running battle with a few of their traditional rivals. By the end, the Sulem had been a broken shadow of their former selves, limping out into obscurity in the wider galaxy.

Where exactly had she learned all this shite about Mandoade anyway? Okay, during the war, she guessed, but really...

The point was, she wouldn't expect to find a Sulem hidden away in a crime lord's personal ship. And by the look of her, she'd been here for some time. "It's an honour to stand with you, Sasha."

The girl twitched, some of the tension leaking out of her. She didn't say anything, just stared up at Cina with a crooked, peculiar sort of look on her face. Probably at the overly formal greeting she'd just used, which would never ordinarily be used with a child. Or maybe it was the improvised nickname — Mission would certainly make her own anyway — could be either one.

"How long have you been in here?"

Sasha stared at her for another long, tense moment. "I dunno."

"You don't know?"

"I was counting days, at first. But I was doing it by marking a box, and they moved it away, so I stopped." Talking that much at once, it was far more obvious she hadn't spoken in quite a while, her voice shaky and hoarse.

"How high did you count?"

"Two hundred fifty-nine."

Cina imagined the little girl counting up tally marks stitching across the inside of a crate, and felt her stomach twist. "How long ago was that?"

"Long. Less than before the box was gone, maybe, but long."

So she'd been on this ship, hiding away from slavers and murderers, living off of whatever she could steal, for probably a year and maybe more. That... Well, she was incredibly lucky she'd never been found, even to be alive. "How did you get here?"

"I hid."

Cina almost laughed at the flat delivery of the uninformative answer. But she held it in, because she had the feeling the full story was less than amusing. "Well, you don't have to hide anymore, Sasha. We stole this ship from the scumbags who had it before. We're not like them, none of us are going to hurt you. I can help you find your family again, if you like."

"They're dead." Sasha's face didn't even twitch.

Yeah, she'd thought they might be. "We'll figure something out, then. Right now—"

"What are you doing talking to yourself back here?"

With the smallest yelp of surprise, Sasha vanished. Instantly, without a trace, as though she'd never existed at all.

Even as Kandosa rounded the corner of the row, Cina met him with a glare. "Honestly, Kandosa, can your timing be any worse? The girl's terrified enough without a huge bloody warrior showing up out of nowhere."

Kandosa's scarred eyebrow ticked up his forehead. Matching her glare with a heavy, cold one of his own, he grumbled, "What girl?"

"Kang had a Mandoade stowaway. She's been doing Jedi things to hide on the ship for a year or more." Amusingly, 'do Jedi things' really was the best way there was to say it in Mandoa.

"You're fucking with me."

"That would make things simpler, wouldn't it?" Raising her voice a little, throwing it back into the softer register she'd been using a minute ago, "It's okay, Sasha. This is Kandosa of Ordo, he's a friend of mine. I know he looks hard as steel, but he's soft as spongecake on the inside."

Kandosa scowled. "I never should have made that joke. You'll never stop punishing me for it, will you?"

"That doesn't seem likely."

Faintly, from somewhere above her and to her left, Sasha's thin voice said, "I saw him." Kandosa jumped, wide eyes casting all around the room, even straight over their heads, trying to find her — apparently, he hadn't taken Cina's word for it. "He fights with the Ken."

Kandosa put that together more quickly than she did. "I don't work for that traitorous coward anymore. Cina here helped me kill him and take his ship. She cut him in half, it was hilarious."

Cina wasn't entirely sure if she should consider that a compliment or not. She  _certainly_  didn't see what was so funny about it — it'd been sort of anticlimactic, really.

There was another of Sasha's long, eerie silences. "Did she get Calo too?"

"Calo?"

"That was the other idiot you sliced up. Yeah, kid, Calo's dead too."

A few thin giggles bounced down from somewhere near the top of one of the stacks of crates. " _Good_."

For some inexplicable reason, Kandosa actually  _smiled_  at that, his eyes going uncharacteristically bright. Mandoade. "That shithead do something to piss you off?"

"He killed my mother," Sasha whispered, soft and cold. "And my uncles. And my brother. He took my sister, and took her to the Ken. I could hear them." She paused, for a moment. When she spoke again, her voice was lower, at floor level behind Cina. "It's good he's dead."

For a few long seconds, Cina and Kandosa just silently stared at each other.

Finally, he muttered, "Have I ever mentioned how much I hated those Exchange slugs?"

Cina shrugged. "It's come up. I kind of regret that these two died so quickly now."

"Yeah, for some people a lasersword—" She held back a guffaw at the Mandoa portmanteau. "—is far too easy a way to go."

"It is a Jedi weapon, they are pansies like that."

"Yeah, no wonder you left."

She just smirked back — she had a feeling wanting to make people who deserved it suffer was actually rather low on the list of reasons she'd left the Jedi, but there was no need to linger on the point. "Right, then." Cina turned to look behind her. At some point Sasha had reappeared, standing a few steps away. There was a peculiar, curious sort of look on her face, bright eyes flicking between Cina and Kandosa. Trying to figure them out, she would guess. "Let's get you cleaned up, Sasha. I don't think we have any clothes that'll fit you though, we'll figure it out."

Kandosa snorted. "'We'? You're the one pulling mysterious children out of thin air. This looks like your problem to me."

"Fuck you, Kandosa."

He gave her a crooked grin, turned to walk away. Before slipping out of sight, he called over his shoulder, "Sure, you know where to find me."

Despite herself, Cina couldn't hold in a chuckle. Mandoade, honestly...

* * *

The disorganised chaos of hyperspace stuttered, like the framerate of a video abruptly dropping. Starting at a point directly ahead, spots of black opened up, extending to streak back around them, starting as narrow belts but quickly expanding, until the black was all there was, the only remnants of light tiny, static dots of white and blue and red.

The largest, brightest object in the sky was Dantooine itself. Asyr had plotted a safe, conservative course, placing them far enough away the planet only filled roughly half of the view, the curving arc of the day side brilliant against stellar night, the distant sun setting the brilliant white clouds painfully afire. From this distance, Dantooine appeared to be an ordinary CL-class world, if exceptionally undeveloped. Cina spotted great plains coloured yellowish-brown about the equator, the vegetation transitioning into a peculiar soft purple in the temperate belts, along the ocean shores and in a few places inland around lakes, in thin lines around rivers invisible from this distance, a muddy greenish-brownish colour, presumably forests of some kind. The seas were a deep, vibrant blue, a band of a lighter shade extending a finger's width above the horizon, without a hint of industrial haze. The planet looked virtually untouched, the native vegetation unbroken by urban development, no scars from industrial-scale mining, a world left untouched by the greater galaxy.

" _Not untouched. Forgotten."_

Her vision going fuzzy, colours and shapes blurring together, Cina's head swam, sending her first teetering against the back of Mission's chair, then to her knees, a rush of roaring black crashing over—

" _The Dark Side is powerful in this place." It was a man's voice, coming thin and faded, as though from far away, his partially-suppressed rim drawl touched with mixed awe and unease._

" _That's not darkness." This was a woman's, equally faded, the slightest hint of eager fascination brightening her meticulous, cultured core accent. "This place is very old, it remembers. That's mourning you feel."_

" _Are you sure you know what you're doing? The ancient Jedi must have sealed this all away for a reason."_

" _You're still too willing to take their good intentions on faith."_

_The woman reached out, not with a hand but something more intangible, yet all the more real for it. Something reached back, a blazing arch cast in life and intent etched into stone and steel, the land around them shuddering with sleeping potential, vestigial fingers reaching out for the stars._

" _Besides, the Jedi didn't seal this, the Builders did."_

" _It's not too late, you know." Pleadingly but, affection frustrated, with no expectation to be affirmed. "Sami, we don't have to do this. We can still go away."_

" _We talked about this." Exasperation, resentment, impatience, affection strained. "You're not going to change my mind by pestering me about it."_

" _You can't blame a guy for trying."_

_Teasingly, sardonically, "I think you'll find, Alek, that I can do whatever I like."_

_The arch shivered, it sang, ancient symbols from a forgotten language flared, and the seam split, death and light and endless time spilling out into the Dantooine night._

With a sudden jolt, hard enough a groan jerked its way up her throat, Cina was released, leaving her shivering against the metal floor. Her vision was still blurred, her ears filled with a fuzzy warbling, but she knew, somehow, she was back in the cockpit of the  _Ebon Hawk_ , Mission and Zaalbar crouching over her, the air thick with voices raised in confusion and panic.

Also? Her head  _really_  fucking hurt.

Thankfully, she recovered quickly, in a few seconds coming back to herself enough she could sit up, with a little assistance from Mission, propped up against the wall under the main systems board. Even that much had her feeling hot and shaky, but that faded in a few seconds, strength gradually returning. "No, I don't have any idea what that was," she said, to a question from Mission she'd only heard the tail half of, her own voice sounding hoarse and unsteady to her own ears.

"A vision." Shan's voice sounded oddly weak too, a quick peek around the nearest seat showed the Jedi was looking exceptionally pale, a sheen of sweat across her forehead. Her eyes were a little out of focus, staring at nothing, hand kneading the side of her head. "Though a rather...unusual one. I cannot be entirely certain what, as it was too indistinct, but after the war Revan and Malak did something here that left an echo, of sorts."

Under the hot pounding that hadn't gotten much better, a peculiar tingle swept through her head. "You saw it too."

"Yes."

"Is that...normal? For two people to get the same vision at the same time?"

Shan went peculiarly still. For a long moment, she stared unblinkingly off into the middle distance, silently mulling over something — long enough Cina wasn't certain she would answer at all. Finally, "No, that is not normal."

Cina frowned. Shan really was bloody transparent — she wasn't telling her something, something important. Confronting her on it now wouldn't accomplish anything, so Cina made a quick mental note to research simultaneous visions at some point. That...was a thing she would be  _able_  to research, right? The Jedi down there would certainly have a library, and if anyone were to have anything on such an esoteric topic it would be them. That felt like a reasonable thing to believe, so, yes, that was probably correct.

She was starting to get the hang of this suppressed Jedi instincts thing, but it still felt very strange.

There was a click and a hiss, startling her enough she twitched, a voice slightly distorted by compression artifacts ringing through the cockpit. " _Dinar Control to Imperial shuttle four-dorn mark cresh-four-nine-set: state your business in this system immediately or be determined hostile."_

"Shit! The transponder! Sorry!" Mission jumped up to her feet, reached for one of the panels over Cina's head. Muttering a fluid stream of Huttese curses under her breath, she pulled the panel open, started fiddling with the innards of one system or another.

Her voice a low growl, Asyr said, "Any second now would be good, Mission."

"Just a second, I almost— There!" The panel clanged closed again, Mission's fingers typing in a command and flipping a couple switches so quickly Cina could hardly follow it. "Done."

"Good work." Asyr might not be very friendly, but at least she knew how to give praise when it was deserved — hacking the standard transponder signal was difficult enough, but setting up a system that could switch codes that quickly was a neat trick. (Take notes, Shan.) "Sorry about that, Control, we were just running a Sith blockade a couple days ago. Forgot to take the mask off."

Cina snorted — a transponder mask was far, far simpler than what Mission had actually done, but it was also far less illegal. Still illegal, of course, just a minor enough of an offense undeveloped rim worlds like Dantooine were unlikely to have any local authority who would make a fuss about it.

There was a short pause, Control sounding particularly unamused when he came back. " _Forgive me if I'm hesitant to take your word for it,_ Ebon Hawk."

In her native language, Asyr muttered something that roughly translated to, "Idiot bureaucrat, I'll rip your proud tongue out if you don't roll over."

Cina snorted. "That might be hard to do from here."

"Allow me my fantasy,  _Hjanethe_." Flicking the com back on, Asyr continued in Basic. "Control, my name is Asyr Lar'sym, a commissioned officer with Bothaw Combined. My copilot is Captain Carth Onasi, whom I'm certain you've heard of. Shoot us down, if you like, but you might find yourself the target of considerably uncomfortable questions in the coming days."

" _Uuuhhhhhh..."_

Wow,  _that's_  professional. Frontier planets, sometimes...

Before this farce could go on any longer, Shan pushed herself to her feet, leaning between Carth and Asyr to loom over the coms panel. "This is Jedi Bastila Shan. Forgive the confusion, Control, we've had a complicated trip. The Council already knows we're here — we'll be landing outside Dinar Enai."

" _Oh, uh, of course, Master Jedi. Sorry. Uh. Thank you."_  The channel closed with a soft squelch.

"I think you made the kid nervous," Cina muttered. Not that that was entirely surprising — she might be rather young yet, but Shan had already managed to make herself a household name throughout the Republic.

Shan, though, assumed Cina was mocking her, and shot her a light glare. Couldn't blame her for that either, really.

The flight down to the surface was exceptionally smooth, Carth guiding the  _Hawk_  into the atmosphere as soft and light as a feather. By the time Cina felt steady enough to stand again, they were already only a few moments from landing, the viewport dominated by a sky turned pink and yellow from approaching sunset, rolling hills thick with long, waving grasses cast yellow and orange by the fading light. There was nothing but grass, for miles and miles, broken here and there by protruding granite, an occasional twisted, spiky tree. Pretty, but plain.

Even as the dull, blocky shapes of artificial structures started breaking over the horizon, a cold shiver ran up Cina's spine. Unbidden, her eyes turned to the side, staring at the metal of the cockpit a half metre from her face. But not seeing it, looking further, kilometres away, drawn to something she knew but could not see.

Somehow, she knew  _exactly_  where Lesami and Alek had gone.

As far as towns went, Dinar Enai was a rather pathetic example of one. A modest collection of little buildings formed of native stone, a ring of newer ones along the edge simple prefabs, Cina doubted it covered even a kilometre square. The largest feature was the Jedi complex itself, a permacrete building with multiple wings and a couple low towers, the whole thing composed of soft, curving lines, a sizeable courtyard cut out in the centre, surrounded by walkpaths and gardens. The rest of the town was only slightly larger, mostly humble houses, by the look of it a handful of stores and basic workshops.

The town was small enough it didn't even have a proper landing pad — a small collection of craft were clumped at the southeast fringe, near a small com tower and what looked like the crowns of industrial fuel pumps, the structure mostly buried. Carth just picked a patch of grass, no different than any other, and came to a gentle landing, the rocky soil firm enough to support the  _Hawk_ 's weight.

They'd barely been on the ground for a minute before Shan was heading out, saying something about needing to report to the Council. On the way she gave Cina a lingering, anxious look, which she supposed was supposed to be subtle — Cina had the feeling she would feature heavily in that report. The rest of them gathered around the holotable, sitting in uncomfortable silence. Mission and Zaalbar were already fiddling away at their own projects, as they were almost every minute of every day, and by the look of it Carth and Asyr were working on tracking down the first shuttle that would get them back to civilisation.

Cina watched them all for a moment, wondering if she should be saying anything to any of them. She didn't  _think_  there was anything important she needed to be dealing with right now. Actually, there  _was_  one thing. Cina pulled out a datapad, queried the town's network for a directory. Not surprisingly, Cina hadn't found anything suitable on board for Sasha to wear — there  _were_  changes of clothes stashed away, but Carth was the only one any of them would actually fit.

She had managed to get Sasha cleaned up, not that that had gone very easily at all. Tempting her out of the cargo hold to the fresher had been difficult enough, the skittish girl disappearing (literally) at any unexpected noise or quick movement, but convincing her to take off her rags and get in the tub had taken even longer. (There actually was an oversized bathtub, with massage jets and everything, which was just absurd for a ship this size, but Kang had liked his luxuries.) Talking Sasha into it had proven to be simply impossible, and Cina knew without having to try that physically directing her would be a  _bad_  idea. In the end, Cina had undressed and gotten in first, but even then Sasha hadn't even started following for another five minutes, still temporarily vanishing from view every time Cina even slightly startled her.

It had become clear rather quickly that Sasha's hair was simply unrecoverable — she'd had to just cut most of it off. That hadn't been easy either, the traumatised girl reacting with predictable terror to Cina approaching her with something sharp. It'd taken quite a bit of convincing for Sasha to let her come close enough. Actually, once again, the  _talking_  hadn't done much good at all, she'd only managed it by leaving a knife out for Sasha to take and hold on to.

This kid was  _seriously_  messed up. It was impossible to  _not_  notice, but Cina tried to avoid thinking about it anyway.

She'd just picked the clothing store in town that sounded more promising (there were only two), when Kandosa walked into the room. "Right. This was fun. Everybody off my ship."

There was a bit of grumbling at that, mostly from Carth and Zaalbar, and a bit of shouting, entirely from Mission. Smiling to herself, Cina waited for it to die down a bit before cutting over her in Mandoa. " _Your_  ship? I don't see that this is  _your_  ship, Kandosa. You couldn't have taken it without our help. You had the idea, but I did most of the killing, and Mission did all the tech work."

Her face coming closer to her familiar grin than it had in the last couple days, Mission yelled, "Yeah! What she said!"

Kandosa's lips twitched with what looked like an involuntary smile, just for an instant before he ruthlessly suppressed it, spearing Mission with a doubtful glare. "I know you don't speak Mandoa,  _ad'ika_. You have no idea what she just said."

"Well, no, but I heard my name, so I assume she's saying we get to stay. Right?"

It could be her imagination, as stony as he could make himself, but Cina was pretty sure Kandosa was suppressing another expression far too soft for his reputation. Mission  _was_ adorable. Cina had to hide her own mocking smirk, that wouldn't make him any more agreeable. "Actually, I was saying this ship is just as much ours as his — arguably more, depending how you look at it."

"Oh, that, what she said, that's way better."

"You're welcome, Mission. On top of that," Cina said, turning back to Kandosa, "there's our little stowaway I found in the cargo hold. I distinctly recall you saying she's my problem. Well, I can't exactly take care of  _my problem_  if I'm not around, can I?"

Kandosa scowled. "I could always kick her off with you."

With a low snort of laughter, Cina said, "Good luck. I can hardly convince her to take ten steps out of that one damn room. And you can't  _force_  her out — if she doesn't want you to find her, you never will. Shan didn't even notice she was there."

"I could just leave her there. She doesn't get in the way."

"Like you would actually leave an orphaned Mandoade girl to rot alone."

Kandosa's scowl turned venomous.

"Look, how about this." Cina turned back to her datapad, in a few seconds had open the node for SRS's transfer service. A bit of fiddling, and she'd set up a weekly payment from her inexplicable fortune to the same private account Kandosa had had her pay into for his help on the rescue mission. "There. I presume you will find that acceptable."

For a few seconds, he stared at her in impassive confusion, before he started at a low beep — moving slowly, giving her a narrow-eyed look of suspicion, he pulled out his own pad. He stared at it for some seconds before finding his voice. "This is..."

Cina switched back to Mandoa. "A hundred thousand credits a week, yes."

He glanced up, blankly stared at her for long seconds. "And you realise this is five times what Davik was paying me." His voice came low, slow, sounding absolutely flabbergasted.

"Really? I didn't know that, actually. No wonder you were looking for outside work — that's  _far_  less than you're worth."

Face splitting with a toothy grin, Kandosa barked out a shocked laugh. "Woman, you're nuts, but you're my kind of nuts."

With a prim little smile, she said, "I suppose I'm meant to take that as a compliment." The overly-proper, dignified sort of tone she was trying for sounded plain  _strange_  in Mandoa.

"If you like." Still chuckling to himself, Kandosa started across the room; Cina pushed herself to her feet to meet him. Roughly clasping her forearm, he said in Basic (presumably for Mission's benefit), "We've got us a deal, Boss. But, if your credit dries up, we're going to have to continue our talk about the ship."

Cina nodded. "Understood." She really didn't think it'd be a problem — she  _had_  been able to withdraw twenty million credits all at once without any snags, if her account permissions allowed that a hundred thousand a week should be  _no_  problem at all.

Now that that was taken care of, Cina set off on her little errand. She made a token attempt at getting Sasha to come with her, but, predictably, that hardly went anywhere, the girl wouldn't even come as far as the ramp. Which, that was fine, her participation wasn't strictly necessary — Cina was pretty sure she could guess her size well enough by sight. She took a last lingering look at Mission on the way out, just in case. To prevent any possible snags, they'd been carrying only the necessities with them, so Mission and Zaalbar had been forced to leave virtually everything they owned behind. Cina had the feeling she didn't care about this sort of thing too much — since they'd met a couple weeks ago now, she'd only ever seen Mission wearing that one outfit — but if something jumped out at her, why not.

Though, buying clothes off the rack was probably very hit and miss for Twi'leks — their bone structure was different enough from humans' that the proportions would be wrong, and those lekku might make getting a lot of things on...awkward. Come to think of it, how did Mission even get that shirt over her head? The collar was clearly seamless all the way around, and it was hard to tell just looking but the fabric didn't seem very stretchy at all. Eh, not important.

Dinar Enai, as she was pretty sure she'd heard it called, was a simple, sleepy little town. This time of the evening, there was hardly anyone about, Cina virtually alone on the narrow, winding concrete roads. It was only a short walk to the clothing store she'd marked, where she found herself the only customer — the young human woman at the counter looked inordinately pleased to have anyone coming in at all. It was a tiny, simple place, quite utilitarian in their selection, really just the basic necessities.

But Sasha did need the basic necessities, so that wasn't a problem. Though, guessing exactly what the basic necessities  _were_  was somewhat more complicated. Cultural expectations so far as clothing went varied quite a lot, especially when considering peoples like the Mandoade, who had been comparatively isolated for most of their history. Even just keeping to Mandoade, what exactly was considered appropriate could be wildly different depending on the environment, locale, and the species being considered. Most had adapted the traditions of the Taung, the founder species of their culture, but not all of them.

Traditionally, she knew, if the environment permitted — which, since Mandoade preferred to settle the equatorial regions of C-class words, it generally did — prepubescent children often wore nothing at all. (Decency standards were more complicated for older individuals, but given Sasha's age that didn't really matter.) Though, this was usually only considered appropriate among Mandoade. In mixed groups it was a bit harder to predict, could be altered by all sorts of factors. A sort of loose frock was typical, for both girls and boys — by the look of what little was left, Sasha had been wearing something of the like when her family had been killed, though it was too dirty and decayed for Cina to guess much more than that.

Dresses and skirts were actually  _very_  common among Mandoade of all ages — and both sexes, in fact, which was sort of hilarious, given pangalactic human gender norms and the reputation Mandoade had. Trousers were meant to be worn under armor which, logically, was only expected to be worn by warriors, and the warrior caste only made up about a quarter of Mandoade society. Most outsiders tended to forget about that little detail.

But, okay, that was doable, there was a selection of dresses and such in suitable sizes. Though, she couldn't get anything too...well, pretty. Mandoade as a rule eschewed pointless frippery, it was quite possible Sasha would refuse to wear anything considered elaborate by their standards. Which narrowed the acceptable options considerably. Though, another problem, she honestly couldn't remember what Mandoade did for underclothes. Warriors, she remembered what they wore, but everyone else, children... Yeah, she was blanking on that. Oh well.

In the end, she grabbed an armful of loose dresses, skirts, and sleeveless tunics, in muted colours and as plain as she could find. (By the look of them, the tunics were probably intended to be worn as pinafores — that is, over something else — but she doubted Sasha would care.) She got some ordinary thins, though she honestly didn't know if Sasha would bother wearing them. After a brief moment of hesitation, Cina grabbed a few pairs of shorts too — it would certainly be unusual for a girl Sasha's age to wear something like this, but Sulem  _was_ a warrior clan, and Cina and Kandosa, the only people on the ship Sasha shared a language with, wore solely trousers, so she thought...

Well, she didn't know what she thought. She'd spent vanishingly little time around children (that she recalled, anyway). Seriously traumatised Mandoade orphan girls, yeah, this was  _not_ in her area of expertise. She was just rolling with it, really.

As long as she was here, she picked up some for herself too. She hadn't had a change of clothes for nearly two weeks, and she'd hardly had the opportunity to wash them — most modern materials could go quite a while without needing attention, but it was starting to get disgusting. She didn't go nuts, just got a few pairs of simple trousers and shirts — some of them were actually sized for men but, frustratingly, the fabric was more durable, she  _really_  did hate clothing manufacturers sometimes — and plenty of thins, because gross. After another brief moment of hesitation, she picked up a sundress for herself. She didn't normally wear this sort of thing very often, but it would be more comfortable lounging around the ship, so fuck it. A few more thins in her best guess at Mission's size and there, she was done.

The attendant looked bloody ecstatic to be selling all this at once. Given the size of the population on this world, and that a significant portion of those were Jedi, Cina rather doubted they saw this much business very often.

Laden with her bags, Cina started back for the ship...then immediately made a brief detour, stopping by a nearby corner shop. Kang's ship was rather well-stocked with food and the standard toiletries, but he clearly didn't have women along often. Cina would be getting her period in a few days, and Mission was more than old enough — Twi'leks actually started earlier than humans, on the average — so, yeah, stocking up was probably a good idea.

By the time she was making it back to the ship, awkwardly shuffling with too many bags slung over her shoulders, sunset had already passed, the western sky still afire with a lingering pink-orange glow but night swiftly approaching. Also, Shan was back, standing at the foot of the ramp, arms crossed, glaring out toward the eastern horizon with an air that couldn't quite be called moody. During her absence, she'd apparently taken the opportunity to change, shrouded in generic Jedi robes of white and brown — which Cina found slightly surprising, given the far more form-fighting getup Shan had been in when they'd met, but she guessed that nonsense right there would be hard to properly fight in. Multiple times, as Cina gradually approached, one foot would tap a couple times at the flattened and scorched ground of the landing field before seemingly catching itself. Shan was clearly impatient, and just as clearly failing to suppress it.

When Cina was still some metres away, she noticed Shan was looking directly toward where that vision had taken place. So, she could still feel it too. Cina had been mostly successful at ignoring it so far, it was unnerving.

"I didn't expect you back so soon."

Shan jumped, jerked around to face her. Then, amusingly, she  _blushed_  — just slightly, it was barely visible in the fading light, but it was there. Probably embarrassed she'd been out of it enough for Cina to get this close unnoticed. "Where have you been? The Council have asked to meet with you, I've been trying to find you for over ten minutes."

Brushing past Shan onto the ramp, Cina scoffed. "You couldn't have been trying very hard. It's not like I know how to hide from a Jedi."

"It is considered inappropriate to pinpoint someone's location by violating their mind and those of the people around them." By the slightly shifty, awkward tone on her voice, that was at least partially shite. (If Cina had to guess, she didn't  _actually_  need to intrude on people's thoughts to track them, she was just making excuses for not taking the initiative.) Stomping up the ramp after her, she said, what  _almost_  sounded like anger tightening her voice, "Didn't you hear me? We are expected."

"They'll just have to wait."

"You don't just make the—"

"Hey, Mission." The girl was still sitting where Cina had left her, on one of the low sofas in the central room next to Zaalbar, plugging away at...some electronic thing, Cina wasn't an expert. Before Mission could say anything, Cina dropped one of the smaller bags in her lap. She was about ninety per cent certain that was the right one. "I guessed your size, if I got it wrong tell me and I'll trade them in."

Mission stared up at her, those big reddish-brown eyes of her slowly blinking. "Uuuhhhh..."

"If you and Zaalbar need anything, just say the word. Since I'm apparently filthy rich." Without another word, Cina turned on her heel and walked off, Shan still tailing her like an anxious shadow.

While Cina was dropping off supplies in the fresher, Shan again decided to make a nuisance of herself, standing in the doorway and glaring at her. "The Masters are not accustomed to being made to wait. Your impertinence will not render you a favourable first impression."

Cina fought down a smirk at Shan's prim tone. She'd already noticed the uptight Jedi forced her voice into stilted, painfully meticulous Basic when she was uncomfortable — it was rather adorable, actually, but Shan would probably assume she was mocking her (not without reason). "Then perhaps I should have been told I might be called so soon. I might have chosen to put off my errands if I'd known." Cina walked out the door, forcing Shan to step back to get out of her way. "But, I wasn't warned, so they'll just have to wait until I'm ready."

In the cargo hold their stowaway had made her home — Cina suspected she slept in one of the boxes toward the top of one of the stacks in the back, but she'd intentionally not looked for it — she dropped the rest of the bags. She was sorting through them, laying out on the floor everything she'd bought for Sasha, when Shan caught up with her again. "This is a serious matter, Cina, you can't... What are you doing?"

"You didn't think I'd leave the poor girl in rags, did you?"

Shan's eyes narrowed into a considering, confused frown. So far, the only people who had actually seen Sasha were Kandosa and herself — while Mission had taken her word for it, even asking how she could help with her, Shan and Carth seemed uncertain whether to believe Sasha existed at all. Well, Carth had come right out and said they were all insane, Shan just gave her doubtful looks about it.

Which was...odd. Shouldn't Shan be able to feel her? In that odd magic sixth sense Jedi had, she meant. Cina could. Not very well, granted, at least not while she was hiding. When she let herself be seen, Sasha practically  _burned_  — Cina couldn't imagine how Shan could possibly miss her, even from the opposite end of the ship. Cina  _had_  been trained in the past, yes, but she didn't remember any of it, she'd think Shan should be much better at this.

Maybe Sasha was just  _that_  good, controlling her, her  _presence in the Force_  (was that how it was said?) enough it didn't get far enough for Shan to feel it. She could obviously mask it entirely, or  _almost_  entirely, maybe that was possible. Cina had no bloody clue.

Once all of Sasha's things were unloaded, Cina stood back up, called out into the hold in Mandoa. "These are for you, Sasha. Take what you want, go ahead and leave anything you don't like or that doesn't fit." Cina doubted Sasha would appear to respond with Shan standing there — she hadn't when Mission had tried to introduce herself, and there were few beings less physically imposing than a teenage Twi'lek girl — so she picked up her own new clothes and just walked out.

"Is that it, then? Will you come now?"

Dropping her bags on the bunk she'd claimed, Cina used the opportunity of her back being turned to roll her eyes. Honestly, she'd think Shan would get the message eventually. "One brief matter to attend to first." She turned to drop to a seat on her bed, starting pulling at the laces of her boots.

Shan was glaring at her again. "Tell me it isn't a nap."

"It isn't a nap." Once her boots were off, Cina got up to her feet again. One by one, she removed the pouches and holsters clipped to her belt — most of them she'd already emptied after waking up on the ship, but she needed to get rid of them before extricating the belt itself from the waistband of the rough, threadbare trousers she'd been wearing for weeks.

"What are you doing?"

"That can't be hard to guess. You changed into fresh clothes as soon as you could yourself." Cina pulled her shirt over her head and tossed it away, pushing down and stepping out of her trousers a moment later.

Shan, she noted at a glance with some amusement, was consciously looking away from her, eyes tipped up and to her left. "The Council will not appreciate time being wasted over such inanities."

"Did you change before meeting them, or after they told you to come get me?" Cina pulled her undershirt over her head; when she could see again, Shan had already turned her back, crossed arms forcing her shoulders rigidly set in mixed embarrassment and irritation. She couldn't quite repress a snort of laughter. True, she was completely nude now — she'd been pretty damn close to it a moment ago, her thins having gone with her trousers, but apparently her undershirt was long enough Shan hadn't noticed — but she would expect Jedi to be the last people to care. "I'm sorry, are you even allowed to be embarrassed?  _There is no emotion_ , and all that."

Her voice coming out a bit sharp, Shan said, "Jedi are to reject vanity."

Reaching for a new pair of knickers, Cina rolled her eyes. "Honestly, Jedi philosophy is so bloody stupid sometimes."

"You don't—"

"There is a critical difference between a lack of modesty and vanity." For a brief moment, Cina considered whether she should wear the dress she'd just bought, but decided against it — there was no point in thumbing her nose at the Jedi more than she had to, no matter how funny it might be. "Body modesty, fundamentally, is born out of shame, the kind of negative, harmful emotion I'd think you Jedi would try to avoid. You're not uncomfortable with nudity from a rejection of vanity, but an excess of prudishness. Prudishness is of pedantry, itself a form of self-righteousness born of arrogance. Shame and arrogance, you're obviously growing quite frustrated with me — you're not exactly demonstrating that supposed Jedi serenity right now, are you?"

Shan said nothing. She just stood there, her back turned, arms firmly crossed, posture so tense it was almost brittle.

Right, she'd had her fun, she'd needled Shan enough for the moment. She couldn't help it though, it was just so  _easy_. After a bit of fumbling, Cina finally got the damn belt through the bloody loops, reached for the leather pouch her inherited lightsaber was in. She nearly hung it from her waist before rethinking it. She'd only hidden the thing like this because openly carrying a lightsaber on the streets of Taris would attract unwanted attention. Here on Dantooine, there was no reason she couldn't just clip it directly onto her belt. "Okay, I'm presentable again — your irrational sensibilities are no longer in danger of being violated." Okay, she was  _mostly_  done needling Shan...

The Jedi said nothing in response. Instead, she let out a slightly harsher breath, not quite intense enough to be considered a sigh. Then she simply started walking, leading the way out into the hall. Passing through the common room again, Cina lingered only long enough to explain where she was going and that she had no idea when she was going to be back, then continued on, following Shan down the ramp and out into the Dantooine night.

Toward the Council. The Jedi Masters who had originally requested her assistance in an archaeological project that probably didn't even exist. The same Masters who, she suspected, had mind-raped the person she'd once been into oblivion.

If her time on Taris hadn't proven she was quite good at pulling idiotic stunts and coming out alive, she might be more worried this was going to blow up in her face.

* * *

Zeltrons vs. Zeltrosi —  _Zeltrons are the near-human species native to Zeltros. Zeltrosi are Zeltrons plus the minority populations of the world (or members of off-world enclaves) that have integrated, adopting the native culture. This is a distinction only Zeltrosi (or people who are aware of the social situation on Zeltros, like Lesami) are likely to make. Generally, non-Zeltrosi would assume the Zeltrons consider the non-Zeltron inhabitants of their world to be...well, aliens. As far as Zeltrosi are considered, that indefinable something that makes a person one of them is more cultural than it is biological. Rather like Mandalorians in that way, actually._

Chess —  _Chess_ _ **does**_   _exist in Star Wars canonically._

syndical democracy —  _In case anyone was wondering, this is not a real term (so far as I know). In politics, a "syndicate" is a group of people who have self-organised (usually democratically) to promote their own interests. Archetypal syndicates would be, like, trade unions, the laborers in a city or even a specific workplace, the farmers in a particular locality, that sort of thing. Anarcho-syndicalism is a leftist political system wherein syndicates cooperate to administrate a region/nation (so far as anarchists believe in administration). The anarchists in the Spanish Civil War were anarcho-syndicalists (_ _ **not**_   _the Communists, many people forget that war had three sides), and a number of modern thinkers advocate for the idea to this day, Noam Chomsky being a prominent example._

_The made-up term "syndical democracy" is meant to refer to a proportional representative democracy where the makeup of the parliamentary delegation is determined by the relative membership of self-organized syndicates instead of political parties. (Though, in this system, those "syndicates" would look more like labor unions or special interest groups, if more democratic than is typical irl.) There's far too much top-down direction and the central government is far too powerful for the Empire to be called properly anarcho-syndicalist, though there are similarities in the foundational principles._

Hutt genocide against the Tionese —  _Canon. See wiki entry for "Ash Worlds"_

Perlemian War —  _Called the Tionese War in canon. The Republic really did reject their surrender and bomb Deservo into oblivion._

Bombing of Alsakan —  _Expanded from the canon Cleansing of Rucapar in the Third Alsakan Conflict._

Bothan culture —  _The Bothans really were a target of the Crusades, the rest is my headcanon._

[the Dalinar, or the Teirasan, or the Marshak, or the Kwenni, or the Namlhta, or the Dras] —  _Canon doesn't name any of the species successfully exterminated during the Crusades, with the exception of the Teirasan (though their ultimate fate wasn't specified), just vaguely says some were. So I made a few up._

Mandalor —  _Canon is "Mand'alor", but I think putting a syllable break there feels really awkward. Even if they were separate morphemes originally, it seems likely to me speakers would slur them together just to make it easier to say._

CL-class —  _Example from a completely made up planetary classification system. Due to the many different species around the galaxy, and their different environmental needs, these classes are based on direct comparison to a selection of important planets (which still leads to hundreds of distinct classes, because the galaxy is bloody huge). CL is technically a sub-category of C, which would be roughly equivalent to M-class planets in Star Trek, Earth-like. Because the size and brightness of the star_ _ **is**_   _important for a litany of reasons, the C-class is broken up according to the class of the system's star. As examples, CR is Coruscant-like (stellar class *F6V), CL is Corellia-like (G2V, the same as our sun), and CZ is Zeltros-like (K7V)._

_*There is a serious problem in the canon involving Coruscant. It's strongly suggested to be the world humans originally evolved on; on Earth that process took roughly 4.6 billion years. Coruscant's sun is described as blue-white, which would suggest either A or B-class; let's say A, to prevent getting too much UV light (though even A would present issues). Problem there? The life-span of A-class stars is measured in the hundreds of MILLIONS of years, which isn't nearly long enough to allow life to evolve as it did on Earth. I kicked it down to a white F-class star, but that would still only last for a few billion years. This is..._ _**possible** _ _, I guess, but it does strain credulity a bit. It's more likely humans evolved somewhere else originally, and were later moved to Coruscant by the Celestials or the Rakata for one reason or another._

_(On the other hand, Zeltros's sun being K-class is 100% believable. K7 might be starting to get too small, but I wanted the more orangish tone, and it's still_ _ **far**_   _more plausible than Coruscant's sun being blue-white, seriously, what the fuck.)_

thins —  _Semi-canon slang for underwear. It is somewhat euphemistic, would be like saying "smalls"._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Wow, too many notes, well over the character cap for this thing. I am nerd._
> 
> _Yes, the Republic really did canonically commit all those atrocities in their history. Not to mention, their political system really can't be legitimately called democratic, and there are **huge** issues with poverty and organised crime. Really casts the canon conflicts in a different light._
> 
> _And yes, Sasha has been reframed as a Mandalorian refugee, orphaned in one of Kang's more bloody backstabbings. There **are**  reasons for that — mostly that I have issues with her canon background, and this means I can do more interesting things with her down the road._
> 
> _Anyway, I'm done. Next chapter opens with Cina meeting the Council, which I'm sure will go perfectly smoothly._


End file.
